r  ' 


The  Valley  of  the 
Great  Shadow 


The  Valley  of  the 
Great  Shadow 


ANNIE  E.  HOLDSWORTH 


(MRS.   LEE-HAMILTON^ 


HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  fef  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCC 


V 


COPYRIGHT     igOO    BY 
HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  DOCTOR  ENGEL  -          -                   i 

II.  PHILIPPA  ALCESTIS  -                                 27 

III.  SONNIE  .....       44 

IV.  BABETTE    -  -  62 
V.  MERRIDEW     -  84 

VI.  THE  PROFESSOR  •           102 

VII.  Miss  BLAKE  -  -                            124 

VIII.  MR.  JERNINGHAM  ...           i^j 

IX.  SIMPLICITY     -  166 

X.  MARIE       -  186 

XI.  THE  ROYSTONS  ...     2gj 

XII.  Miss  BUSYBODY  236 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 


CHAPTER  I 

DOCTOR   ENGEL 


"Good-bye,  Philippa.  I  leave  you  to  the  care 
of  the  good  Doctor."  The  whip  cracked  again. 
Colonel  Joy  smiled  from  the  diligence  window. 
The  girl  on  the  road  made  a  movement  of 
disdain. 

"The  good  Doctor!  A  horrid  German  icicle  in 
spectacles!  If  that  is  all  my  consolation,  I  will 
go  to  England  with  you.''  Her  foot  was  on  the 
step,  but  her  father  shook  his  head. 

"No,  no;  you  must  stay  here  and  grow  strong. 
I  shall  be  lonely  enough — a  whole  month  with- 
out my  girl — "  His  voice  failed.  Philippa 
stepped  back  and  blazed  up  at  him. 

"Lonely?"  she  cried,  passionately.  "And 
what  will  it  be  for  me,  left  alone  with  nothing 
but  snow  and  pines" — she  gulped  down  her 
tears — "and  a  doctor  of  ice?" 

"Snow  and  pines?"  said  her  father,  cheerfully. 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Don't  you  remember  that  Miss  Blake  said  they 
meant  death  and  immortality?  The  ice  will  melt 
in  the  sun.  Be  patient." 

The  driver  cracked  his  whip  for  the  last  time. 
Philippa  shook  herself  determinedly,  and  called 
back  the  light  to  her  face. 

"Good-bye,  dear,"  she  smiled.  "Don't  worry 
about  me;  I  will  console  myself  with  the  good 
Doctor." 

She  kissed  her  hand,  and  her  father  bright- 
ened. This  little  girl  of  his  had  courage  enough 
to  face  more  than  loneliness,  he  knew. 

He  was  smiling  still  when  the  sleigh  dipped 
round  the  curve.  Philippa's  eyes  showed  con- 
flicting lights — remorse,  petulance,  spirit. 

"Poor  dear,"  she  thought;  "I  didn't  mean  to 
let  him  see  how  I  hate  to  be  left  in  this  doleful 
place — sick  people,  perpetual  snow,  gloomy 
pines,  and  a  doctor  as  silent  as  the  grave,  and  as 
cheerful.  It's  a  brilliant  prospect." 

She  dwelt  resentfully  on  the  thought,  and 
tilted  her  head,  repeating,  "Good  Doctor!" 

"That  is  the  man  in  a  phrase,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "How  unspeakably  dull  it  sounds! — as 
dull  as  himself." 

She  thought  of  Dr.  Engel's  stoop,  for  he  car- 
ried his  height  awkwardly,  his  brown  hair,  the 
blonde  beard  and  moustache  hiding  his  large 
mouth,  the  hands  that  touched  so  lightly,  the 
shabby  clothes  always  well  brushed.  The  por- 


Doctor  Engel 

trait  contrasted  unfavourably  with  that  of  her 
London  doctor. 

She  walked  back  to  the  Hotel  Royal,  between 
the  ranges  of  pine-covered  hills  that  bounded  the 
Alpine  valley. 

The  snow  was  blossoming  into  crimson,  and 
where  it  met  the  sky  a  delicate  tracery  of  pines 
laid  a  crown  upon  it.  At  sunrise  and  at  sunset 
an  individual  life  came  into  the  trees,  so  that 
each  needled  point  pricked  solitary  against  the 
glow.  When  the  light  passed  they  closed 
together  again  and  wreathed  the  summits  with  a 
heavy  chaplet.  From  the  Catholic  chapel  came 
the  sound  of  the  Angelus.  The  sunset  burnt  red 
on  the  chalet  windows,  and  flashed  on  the  panes 
of  the  hotels,  but  Philippa  did  not  notice  it. 
Her  face  was  gloomy ;  her  eyes  protested  against 
the  month's  desertion. 

She  turned  into  the  Royal,  and  walked  on  to 
the  balcony.  It  would  be  empty  at  this  hour, 
when  the  invalids  always  went  to  their  rooms. 
To-day  it  was  not  empty.  She  met  the  Pro- 
fessor, shuffling  along  in  his  snow-shoes,  his 
bear-skin  over  his  shoulder,  his  eyes  peeping 
from  a  fur  cap. 

"Met  Dr.  Engel  on  the  road?"  he  asked  Phil- 
ippa. 

"I  have  not,"  she  answered,  shortly.  "I 
don't  concern  myself  with  Dr.  Engel's  move- 
ments." 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Might  do  worse,"  he  grunted.  "Engel  could 
tell  you  more  about  everything  than  any  man 
you  ever  met." 

"Well,  he  ought  to,"  she  said,  disdainfully. 
"He  has  been  buried  in  books  all  his  life." 

"But  you  might  have  been  buried  in  a  library 
for  a  century,  and  still  you  would  know  noth- 
ing," said  the  Professor,  blandly. 

"I  know  that  you  are  very  rude,"  said  Phil- 
ippa,  pouting.  She  liked  the  Professor.  He 
was  the  only  man  of  her  acquaintance  who  did 
not  pay  her  compliments. 

"Engel's  a  clever  man,"  the  Professor  went 
on;  "but  even  he  could  not  put  any  sense  into 
your  small  head.  Didn't  I  hear  you  calling  him 
a  fossil?" 

"Very  probably,"  said  Philippa,  yawning. 
"And  it  is  likely  you  will  hear  me  call  him  a 
fossil  again.  He  is  hard  enough  to  belong  to  the 
stone  age." 

"Engel  hard?"  shouted  the  Professor. 
"Engel?  Engel,  of  all  men?"  He  looked 
fiercely  at  Philippa.  "Didn't  I  say  you  had  no 
sense,  you  little  empty-headed  firefly?" 

"You  did,  Professor.  But  a  woman  needn't 
be  foolish  because  she  is  pretty." 

"Fiddles!"  said  the  Professor.       "Pretty  or 
plain,  she  always  is  foolish.     Engel  hard?     Bless 
my  soul!     I've  known  him  all  my  life.     He's  a 
friend  of  mine,  Miss  Butterfly." 
4 


Doctor  Engel 

"Two  crusty  old  bachelors!  You  have  to  be 
friends  with  each  other,  because  no  woman  will 
be  friends  with  you." 

"Eh,  eh?  What  do  you  say,  you  shrimp? 
Isn't  Miss  Blake  a  friend  of  mine?  And  aren't 
all  the  women  in  love  with  Engel?  'The  dear 
Doctor,  the  charming  Doctor,  the  angelic  Doc- 
tor'— haven't  you  heard  them?" 

It  restored  the  Professor's  good  humour  to 
mince  over  the  feminine  accents. 

"He  would  be  good-looking  if  he  didn't  look 
so  good,"  said  Philippa.  "He  is  something  like 
the  pictures  one  sees  of  Christ." 

"Yet  a  minute  ago  you  said  he  was  hard:" 
She  covered  her  ears  with  her  hands. 

"I  am  heartily  tired  of  hearing  that  man's 
name,"  she  cried.  "It  is  enough  that  he  is 
nothing  to  me,  and  hideous.  Let  us  talk  of 
something  pretty." 

"I  knew  you  wanted  to  talk  of  yourself," 
chuckled  the  Professor.  Suddenly  she  threw  out 
her  hand  appealingly. 

"Ah,  don't,  Professor!  I'm  really  very  miser- 
able. Daddy  has  just  gone,  and  I  am  here  all 
alone." 

She  looked  as  if  sh'e  were  going  to  cry.  The 
Professor  edged  away  nervously. 

"And  I  am  here  all  alone,  too,"  he  said. 

Philippa  turned  away  and  pretended  to  look  at 
the  sunset.  "Bless  my  soul!  God  bless  my  soul!" 
5 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

He  shuffled  after  her,  and  pressed  a  large  yel- 
low bandana  into  her  hand. 

"Haven't  you  a  handkerchief,  child?"  he 
said,  testily.  "Here,  take  this;  I  hate  to  see  a 
woman  cry  untidily." 

She  looked  at  the  gaudy  square,  and  laughed. 
"Oh,  Professor,  how  absurd!  I  don't  want 
your  handkerchief." 

She  dashed  her  own  across  her  eyes,  and 
looked  defiantly  at  him.  "If  you  dare  to  tell 
any  one  you  saw  me  crying — " 

The  Professor's  eyes  had  traveled  from  the 
balcony  to  the  road.  Philippa's  followed  them, 
and  saw  Dr.  Engel  coming  towards  the  hotel. 

"I  am  going  in,  Professor.  It's  dangerous 
to  stay  out  after  sunset,"  she  cried,  and  left 
him. 

The  Professor  hurried  away  to  his  interview 
with  the  Doctor.  It  was  not  strictly  professional. 
The  two  men  sat  talking  of  "Men  and  Women" 
and  other  books.  Before  they  parted,  Dr.  Engel 
knew  that  Miss  Joy,  one  of  his  most  charming 
patients,  thought  him  a  hard  old  fossil. 

On  the  balcony  of  her  private  sitting-room 
Philippa  stood,  her  face  pinched  and  grey,  gaz- 
ing out  at  the  white  valley  and  the  white  hills, 
and  the  night  of  the  pine  wood.  Overhead  a 
single  star  hung  against  the  blue,  and  from  the 
valley  came  up  the  sound  of  the  Grunwasser. 

The  river  moaned  under  the  weight  of  the  ice 
6 


Doctor  Engel 

that  edged  its  banks,  and  the  note  caught  the 
girl's  mood.  It  seemed  to  be  the  one  living 
thing  in  the  silence,  and  it  gave  a  voice  to  the 
pain  and  despair  and  hope  that  under  the  weight 
of  death  flowed  in  a  human  stream  through  the 
valley  of  the  Mittenthal. 

Philippa  had  been  long  enough  at  Mittenplatz 
to  know  it.  "A  winter  health-resort"  was  a 
baldly  humourous  description  of  the  place  where 
Death  and  Life  waited  together  for  the  bodies 
of  men. 

Death  and  Life  stood  sentinel  at  every  door  in 
the  village;  they  were  the  lacqueys  that  served 
at  the  dances  and  dinners;  and  Death  waited  on 
this  one,  and  Life  on  that.  They  sat  in  every 
sleigh  as  it  jangled  gaily  over  the  snow,  and 
sometimes  Death  drove,  and  sometimes  Life. 
And  no  one  saw  that  the  men  who  swept  the  lake 
for  the  skating  were  Death  and  Life,  or  knew 
that  Death  froze  the  toboggan-run  down  which 
Life  swung  into  the  valley. 

When  the  snow  flashed  in  the  sun  like  silver, 
and  the  jodels  rang  cheerily  across  the  silence, 
people  forgot  the  sadness  of  the  Mittenthal. 
But  at  night  they  remembered;  for  then  Life 
slept  and  only  Death  watched.  And  then  the 
cold  was  a  naked  sword  hanging  over  the  valley, 
and  the  snow  was  a  shroud  on  the  fields,  and  the 
mountains  were  the  graves  of  magnificent  ambi- 
tions. 


Then  those  who  looked  up  despairing  could 
see  spread  out  the  great  wings  that  threw  their 
great  shadow  over  the  valley. 

It  was  not  yet  night,  but  the  shadow  rested  on 
Philippa.  She  closed  her  hand  over  the  balcony 
rail  as  if  it  was  the  bar  of  a  cage  that  she  would 
crush. 

"I  hate  the  place!"  she  said,  with  a  half-sob; 
"I  hate  the  people,  with  their  hopeful  faces  and 
their  smiles  and  their  sunburn  that  looks  like 
health  and  is  not.  I  hate  the  ghostliness  of  the 
snow,  the  stealthiness  of  death  when  it  comes. 
It  is  all  so  pathetic.  And  the  glad  sun,  and  the 
gaiety,  and  the  music  outside  the  Kurhaus  are  a 
horrible  mockery.  And  if  you  do.  forget  that 
people  are  dying  round  you,  the  awful  silence  of 
the  mountains  reminds  you  of  it.  There  they 
stand,  watching  the  endless  march-past  of 
Death's  captives.  And  yet  how  beautiful  it  is. 
The  great  solemn  white  hills  teach  one  to  be 
calm  and  patient." 

She  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand  and  listened 
to  the  moan  of  the  river  and  to  the  jodelling  of 
a  peasant  going  home  after  work. 

"Yes,  it  is  beautiful,"  she  said;  "but  I  shall 
be  glad  when  spring  comes,  and  I  can  go  away. 
This  is  a  place  for  people  who  have  lived  their 
lives,  or  for  creatures  like  the  Professor  and  the 
Doctor,  who  have  no  life  to  live — who  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  laugh  and  be  glad." 
8 


Doctor  Engel 

Then  her  tone  changed.  "Poor  soul!"  she 
went  on;  "he  has  been  here  for  ten  years,  buried 
in  snow.  No  wonder  he  belongs  to  the  ice  age. 
And  he  never  has  any  pleasure  but  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  his  patients  recover — sometimes.  And 
he  is  always  cheerful,  and  always  gentle,  and 
always  patient,  even  when  he  is  in  a  rage.  How 
many  men  would  live  his  life  and  not  grow  crusty 
and  selfish?  Ten  years!  And  I  hate  the  thought 
of  a  few  weeks!" 

She  turned  from  the  dusky  pines  and  from  the 
warning  note  of  the  Griinwasser,  and  went  into 
the  room. 

The  blaze  and  crackle  of  firelogs  welcomed 
her.  The  electric  light  showed  the  rugs  and 
curtains,  the  pictures  and  books  and  piano,  with 
which  her  father  had  made  her  sitting-room 
cozy. 

No  one  in  the  hotel  had  such  luxurious  rooms. 
It  was  as  much  as  most  people  could  afford  to 
have  a  south  room  and  a  balcony.  Philippa  had 
two  sunny  rooms  and  two  balconies,  though  she 
was  not  really  an  invalid.  But  she  gazed  at  the 
comfort  in  the  room  as  a  prisoner  might  have 
gazed  on  the  stones  of  his  cell. 

She  might  have  amused  herself  even  at  Mitten- 
platz,  for  the  life  had  plenty  of  colour  and  move- 
ment, and  there  were  gay  strains  in  the  music  to 
which  the  invalids  stepped.  There  were  people 
who  were  recovering,  or  had  recovered,  and  their 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

friends,  and  the  roads  were  always  cheerful  with 
sleighs  and  toboggans. 

There  were  balls  and  tournaments  and  dinners 
in  the  hotels.  In  the  Mittenthal,  Death  wore  the 
livery  of  Life,  the  master  masquerading  as  the 
servant.  But  Philippa  had  seen  the  face  under 
the  mask,  and  she  chose  to  be  quiet,  and  to  have 
only  the  delight  of  nature  in  the  air  that  intoxi- 
cated like  wine.  She  had  promised  her  father 
to  make  the  best  use  of  the  curative  influences 
of  the  place.  He  was  over-anxious  for  her  in 
his  dread  of  the  disease  to  which  her  mother 
had  been  sacrificed,  and  Philippa  was  not 
robust. 

Sitting  alone  in  her  room  that  night  after  din- 
ner, she  began  to  realize  her  loneliness  without 
her  father.  And  he  would  be  lonely,  too.  She 
knew  what  it  had  cost  him  to  leave  her,  and  a 
strong  desire  for  life,  for  his  sake,  filled  her 
thoughts. 

"I  would  rather  suffer  anything  than  see  him 
suffer,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  could  bear  any 
loneliness  myself  rather  than  leave  him  lonely 
forever." 

Then  she  lifted  herself  and  laughed  a  strenu- 
ous little  laugh.  "But  I  am  not  going  to  die;  I 
feel  the  life  in  me  strong,  strong,  overcoming 
death.  I  am  not  patient  and  bright  and  gen- 
tle, like  the  people  who  can't  recover;  I  don't 
love  the  valley  as  an  earthly  paradise,  as  the 
10 


Doctor  Engel 

poor  souls  do  who  are  not  eager  for  the  heav- 
enly— I  hate  it.  When  I  leave  it  I  shall  go  into 
lovely  places  to  make  up  for  the  exile  I  have 
suffered  here." 

She  bent  forward  and  looked  deep  into  the  fire, 
and  a  smile  broke  across  the  determinedness  of 
her  mouth.  What  should  she  do  when  she  left 
the  Mittenthal?  What  should  she  do?  Live,  of 
course;  live  royally,  pressing  out  the  wine  of 
life  from  her  vineyard.  She  would  walk  there 
with  the  gods.  Yellow  sun  and  green  vine  and 
brown  earth  should  borrow  the  richer  colours  of 
the  past.  The  love  given  to  Laura  and  Beatrice 
should  sweeten  her  grapes;  the  wisdom  of 
Hypatia  should  flavour  her  cup;  the  songs  of 
Sappho  should  echo  in  the  shouts  of  the  vintage. 
At  dawn  the  dreams  of  the  saints,  of  Catherine 
and  Cecilia,  would  shine  among  the  misty  vines. 
She  would  do  brave  deeds,  fight  with  Joan  of 
Arc,  be  martyred.  She  would  taste  the  passion- 
ate innocence  of  the  Cenci.  Her  vineyard  should 
yield  purple  grapes. 

She  did  not  see  the  knots  on  which  the  clusters 
hung,  the  misshapen  roots  from  which  trailed 
delicate  leaf  and  tendril.  She  demanded  the 
glory  and  beauty  of  life,  the  pomp  of  passion. 
And  they  belonged  to  the  knotted  strength  of 
defeat  and  the  blank  days  of  loss. 

She  frowned  as  a  knock  at  the  door  made  the 
vision  vanish.  Dr.  Engel  came  in  and  stood 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

before  her,  crushing  his  felt  hat  in  his  hands,  a 
new  nervousness  in  his  manner. 

He  did  not  speak  at  once.  Philippa  looked  at 
him  wonderingly.  Her  eyes  were  still  the  wide, 
deeply  lighted  eyes  of  one  who  has  just  seen  a 
vision,  and  the  intensity  gave  force  to  her  face. 
Was  she  the  spoiled  child  he  had  known,  mirth- 
ful and  provocative,  weeping  stormily  on  the 
hotel  balcony? 

His  surmise  flashed  vividly  against  the  cold 
steel  of  the  news  he  carried. 

"I  have  bad  news  for  you,"  he  said  in  English, 
which  he  spoke  as  well  as  he  spoke  German. 
Philippa  started  up,  her  breath  arrested. 

"Daddy?"  she  cried. 

"Yes.  I  have  to  tell  you — there  has  been  an 
accident — they  have  telephoned — " 

"Dead?"  she  whispered,  shrinking  from  his 
pity. 

"No;  but  hurt." 

"How  dare  you — frighten  me?"  she  gasped. 
She  drew  a  long,  shuddering  breath,  and  the  red 
surged  back  to  her  face. 

"I  thought  he  was  dead!"  she  laughed, 
nervously.  "Hurt?  My  poor  darling!  Where 
is  he?  I'll  go  at  once."  She  caught  up  a 
shawl  and  twisted  it  round  her.  "Is  he  much 
hurt?" 

"Not  so  fast.  He  is  at  Lansing.  You  must 
wait  till  morning  for  the  diligence." 

12 


Doctor  Engel 

She  paused  at  the  door,  turning  her  head. 
"No;  I'll  have  a  sleigh.  Come — please  come — " 

"No,  no!"  the  Doctor  cried,  quickly;  "the 
road  is  impossible  at  night — dangerous.  One 
can't  drive." 

"Then  we  must  walk.  Oh!  what  are  you 
doing,  wasting  time?"  she  went  on.  "Don't 
you  know  how  he  will  want  me?  And  you,  too; 
he  must  have  the  best  doctor — come."  Her 
figure  was  tense  in  command. 

"You  can't  go,"  Engel  said.  "A  strong  man 
might  make  the  walk  through  the  snow,  but  not 
you — twenty  miles — and  the  cold — " 

"You  will  come  with  me,"  said  Philippa.  She 
threw  her  head  back,  the  gesture  of  a  person 
suffocating,  and  went  up  to  him.  "Please  come 
with  me." 

"Ach  was?"  He  put  his  hands  behind  him 
and  fell  back  from  her  pleading. 

Her  surprise  at  the  movement  accused  him  of 
cowardice.  He  was  a  coward,  he  knew;  he  might 
yield  because  she  had  called  him  a  hard  man.  He 
steeled  himself,  and  his  silence  repulsed  her. 

"Very  well;  I'll  go  alone." 

She  walked  to  the  door,  and  he  hesitated. 
After  all,  her  father  would  scarcely  live  through 
the  night.  He  stopped  her  at  the  door. 

"Look  then;  I  will  drive  you.     It  is  no  doubt 
madness.       What    then?"       He     shrugged     his 
shoulders  and  looked  doubtfully  at  her. 
13 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Yes,  yes!  Oh,  Dr.  Engel,  don't  waste  time. 
Get  the  sleigh.  Let  us  start — " 

"Patience,"  he  said,  gravely.  "In  ten 
minutes  I  will  come.  Change  your  gown — put  on 
many  wraps.  We  shall  be  frozen. " 

Ten  minutes  after,  the  Professor  and  Miss 
Blake  were  in  the  hall  to  see  Philippa  start. 
The  lights  flashed  out  on  the  road.  The  bells  on 
the  horses  tossed  the  silence  in  little  drifts  about 
their  heads.  When  the  cloaked  and  hooded 
figures  had  been  swept  into  the  night,  Miss  Blake 
turned  to  the  Professor. 

"Poor  darling!"  she  said,  tremulously.  "I 
trust  she  will  find  that  it  is  not  so  serious. 
There  is  something  very  touching,  Professor,  in 
seeing  the  two  set  out  in  the  starlight  to  face  the 
great  shadow  of  death." 

"Touching?  A  pair  of  fools,  ma'am!  They 
can't  see  their  road.  They  will  freeze  in  an 
hour.  If  Engel  was  not  such  an  obstinate  fool 
there  might  be  a  little  hope.  But  he  will  fall 
over  a  precipice  rather  than  own  he  has  lost  his 
way." 

"Philippa  is  with  him.  She  will  help  him;  she 
is  so  wise  and  strong.  She  has  great  character; 
I  admire  her  judgment.  Don't  you  think  they 
will  arrive  safely,  Professor?" 

"Humph!"  grunted  the  Professor. 


Doctor  Engel 


II 

The  difficulties  of  the  road  did  not  exist  for 
Philippa,  though  she  knew  the  ice-track  down 
which  the  horses  must  stumble  and  slide,  dan- 
gerous at  noon,  at  midnight  a  menacing  peril.  ' 
It  was  nothing  to  her  that  they  must  plunge  into 
pitch  blackness,  feeling  their  way  on  the  edge 
of  the  chasm  that  slipped  away  from  the  road. 
It  was  nothing  that  they  must  creep  under  the 
rocks,  holding  their  breath,  stealthy  and  silent, 
lest  the  pent  snow  should  wind  its  shroud  round 
horse  and  sleigh  and  traveller.  It  was  nothing 
that  the  horses  might  reach  Lansing  in  safety, 
and  the  two  figures  in  the  sleigh  be  frozen  to 
their  seats.  Calm  and  silent  she  sat  beside  the 
Doctor,  whose  brows  were  set  over  eyes  probing 
the  distance. 

It  was  not  yet  utterly  dark.  Splashes  of  elec- 
tric light  made  pools  upon  the  mile  of  road  be- 
tween Mittenplatz  and  Pitzen.  The  Kurhaus  at 
Pitzen  was  still  awake.  Above  the  lights,  on 
the  Pitzenberg,  people  were  tobogganing.  Their 
laughing  sounded  pleasantly  under  the  sparkling 
stars.  Engel  spoke  to  the  horses,  and  they 
dashed  up  the  Pitzenberg  and  down  again  into 
the  plain  of  the  Pitzensee.  The  lake  slept  its 
winter  death-sleep.  The  great  tombstones  of 
Schwarzberg  and  Weissberg  marked  where  it 
'5 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

lay.  There  was  no  sound  in  all  the  vast  silence 
but  the  clash  of  the  sleigh-bells. 

Now  Philippa  had  time  to  dwell  on  her  father's 
accident.  Engel's  meagre  details  had  only  fed 
surmise  and  alarm. 

"Dr.  Engel, "  she  suddenly  broke  silence,  "I 
want  to  know  exactly  what  has  happened  to 
Daddy." 

Engel  frowned.  He  wished  to  spare  her  the 
knowledge  that  tightened  his  throat  and  made 
the  twenty  miles  between  Mittenplatz  and  Lan- 
sing a  long-drawn-out  dread.  "Fatally  injured. 
Only  just  alive,"  still  clanged  in  his  ears. 

"It  is  impossible  to  say.  The  message  was 
that  he  had  slipped  from  the  diligence  in  alight- 
ing. The  telephone  was  short." 

"If  he  could  telephone,  it  can't  be  so  very 
serious,"  said  Philippa,  thoughtfully. 

Engel  busied  himself  with  the  horses,  floun- 
dering waist-deep  in  snow.  The  lights  stream- 
ing out  showed  the  drift;  the  air  slashed  like 
knives  across  their  faces. 

Philippa  shrank  into  her  furs,  but  Engel  hung 
forward.  She  could  see  his  moustache  frozen, 
the  rime  on  eyebrow  and  lash.  His  hands  held 
the  reins  as  if  they,  too,  were  frozen. 

Whatever  she  might  suffer  from  the  cold,  she 

saw   that   he    would    suffer   more,    and    a    light 

remorse  flitted  over  her  thoughts.     Ought  she  to 

have  insisted   on   this  mad  journey?     The  first 

16 


Doctor  Engel 

diligence  from  Mittenplatz  would  be  at  Lansing 
eight  hours  after  them,  and  if  her  father  were 
not  in  danger — 

For  herself  she  was  glad  that  she  had  come. 
This  weird  progress  downward,  through  snow 
and  pine  and  midnight,  made  her  tingle  with 
new  sensations.  She  was  excited,  conscious  of 
Engel's  tense  attitude. 

Then  they  sprang  into  the  night  of  the  pine 
wood,  and  blackness  closed  over  them  with  a 
rush  as  of  meeting  wings.  Involuntarily  she 
pressed  closer  to  him.  She  felt  his  glance  towards 
her.  His  voice  was  gentle  in  spite  of  its  hoarse- 
ness. It  sang  above  the  squeal  of  the  drag  on 
the  sleigh-runners.  "You  are  not  afraid?  You 
are  warm  still?" 

"I  should  be  afraid  if  you  were  not  with  me, 
but  not  now." 

"That  is  very  well,"  he  said.  Her  answer 
pleased  him. 

"You  like,  then,  all  this?"  he  went  on. 

"Yes;  it  is  all  so  strange  and  terrible.  Those 
white  pines  look  like  processions  of  ghosts.  But 
there  is  life  in  the  bells,  and  in  the  creaking  of 
the  sleigh,  and  now  and  then  you  can  see  a  star. 
Dr.  Engel,  tell  me,  do  you  think  we  shall  be  able 
to  take  Daddy  back  with  us  to-morrow?" 

"I  cannot  say." 

Then  he  began  to  tell  her  of  life  in  the  Mit- 
tenthal.  How  the  winter,  with  its  snow  and  its 
17 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

invalids,  passed,  and  the  ice  in  the  valley  melted, 
and  everywhere  the  song  of  living  water  tinkled. 
And  how  the  flowers  came,  long  successions  of 
colour  passing  over  the  vivid  green  of  the 
meadows;  and  how  the  gentian  dyed  the  slopes, 
and  the  alpen-roses  lit  their  fires  in  the  woods 
where  in  the  white  winter-time  Death  and  Life 
walked  together. 

And  Philippa  smiled  to  herself  at  his  German 
sentiment.  She  liked  to  listen  to  him.  He 
dwelt  like  a  schoolboy  on  the  delights  of  the 
summer  fields.  It  was  a  curious  theme  there  in 
the  winter  midnight. 

"In  the  midst  of  death  we  are  in  life,"  Phil- 
ippa said  to  herself,  listening  to  the  voice  that 
sang  above  the  squeal  of  the  drag  or  fell  brok- 
enly among  the  jangle  of  the  bells. 

Now  and  then  he  spoke  to  the  horses,  or  got 
out  to  help  them  through  a  drift;  and  then  she 
could  tell  from  his  tone  how  every  thought  was 
clamped  round  the  risks  of  the  mountain  road. 
They  were  travelling  slowly,  stealthily,  the  horses 
feeling  every  step  of  the  way.  Philippa  knew 
the  steepness  of  the  road  by  the  set  of  their 
haunches. 

The  lights  of  the  lamps  touched  the  snow  on 
either  side,  and  called  out  flashing  fires  from  the 
crystals.  But  behind  them  was  the  night  and 
before  them  the  midnight. 

The  Doctor  got  out  again  and  encouraged  the 
18 


Doctor  Engel 

horses,  who  trembled,  feeling  the  edge  of  the 
ravine.  The  shriek  of  the  drag  was  like  a  human 
cry,  the  background  for  his  words.  Philippa 
wondered  at  the  way  in  which  he  spoke.  She 
had  only  seen  him  in  the  nervous  reserve  of  his 
professional  mood.  Now  she  echoed  the  Pro- 
fessor's astonished,  "Hard?  Engel  hard?" 

Would  they  never  get  down  those  dreadful 
slopes?  Would  she  ever  lose  the  sense  of  giddy 
height  and  giddier  depth?  She  dared  not 
breathe,  feeling  the  balance  they  kept  on  the 
slippery  ledge.  The  beat  of  a  pulse  might  shat- 
ter that  difficult  poise. 

The  tension  began  to  tell  on  her.  She  watched 
the  white  processions  stealing  towards  them  with 
silent,  mysterious  steps,  and  she  could  have 
shrieked.  The  cold  numbed  her.  She  was 
paralyzed,  bound  in  living  death. 

Soon  the  stars  were  blotted  out.  The  dark- 
ness swathed  them  round  and  round.  About 
them  there  was  nothing  but  the  armed  cold  and 
the  silence  of  the  forest 

She  found  herself  longing  unutterably  for 
Engel's  voice,  but  she  hid  her  terror. 

When  the  road  widened  he  took  his  seat  again, 
and  bent  down  to  her.  "Almost  asleep?" 

"No.  Oh,  I  ought  to  have  waited!  I  ought 
not  to  have  let  you  come." 

"So?     But — well,  then,  I  was  myself  going  to 
Lansing;  yes,  even  alone." 
19 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Oh,  Dr.  Engel!"  The  intonation  of  the 
name  was  eloquent.  Suddenly  she  caught  his 
arm.  "Because  you  thought  it  serious — you 
were  going?" 

"I  wished  for  myself  to  see  how  serious.  But 
now  can  you  hold  the  reins  while  I  warm  my 
fingers?" 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  cried,  eagerly.  "I  will  drive. 
Your  hands  must  be  frozen.  See!  Put  them  in 
my  muff." 

When  he  would  have  taken  the  reins  again  she 
refused  to  give  them  up.  Finally  he  ceased 
entreating,  and  took  them  from  her  by  main 
force.  After  that  there  was  silence.  Engel  was 
too  vexed  at  her  obstinacy,  Philippa  too  offended 
by  his  action,  to  speak. 

All  at  once  the  sleigh  swerved;  there  was  a 
muffled  cry  that  died  away  in  his  ears  and  left  a 
soundless  space. 

When  consciousness  came  back  he  was  lying 
in  a  drift,  half-suffocated.  His  first  thought 
was  for  Philippa. 

He  fought  down  the  snow,  struggled  to  his 
feet,  and  groping  blindly,  clambered  to  level 
ground.  There  were  no  lights.  He  stumbled 
against  the  sleigh  lying  on  its  side.  The  horses 
were  quiet.  Not  a  breath  stirred  the  shrill 
silence.  His  heart  became  like  ice.  How  long 
had  he  been  lying  stunned?  Was  she  dead? 


20 


Doctor  Engel 

She  must  be  dead!  He  gave  something  like  a 
sob.  "Du  armes  Kind!  du  armes  Kind!" 

A  quick,  tremulous  laugh  answered  him. 

"Call  me  what  names  you  like,  only  speak." 

"Where  are  you,  where?"  he  shouted. 

"Here,  holding  the  horses.  I've  been  calling 
you  for  hours." 

He  groped  his  way  to  her.  She  was  leaning 
on  a  pine-trunk,  the  reins  twisted  round  her 
arm.  He  thought  he  heard  her  teeth  chattering, 
but  he  must  have  been  mistaken.  When  she 
spoke  her  voice  was  brusque  and  steady. 

"I  couldn't  look  for  you,  you  see.  The  horses 
might  have  bolted.  I  thought  I  had  better  hold 
them,  so  that  if  you  were  really  dead  I  could  go 
on  to  Lansing." 

"So?"  he  said,  stupidly.  Then  sharp  and 
insistent  came  a  desire  to  have  some  share  in 
her  solicitude.  The  spark  that  night's  work 
had  kindled  was  fanned  into  flame  by  her  uncon- 
cern for  him. 

He  lighted  the  lamps  and  harnessed  the  horses 
to  the  sleigh,  and  they  took  their  seats  again, 
Engel  driving,  straining  his  eyes  to  keep  the 
difficult  path. 

His  great  sigh  of  relief  made  Philippa  aware 
when  the  worst  danger  was  passed.  They  had 
come  to  level  road.  Thereafter  the  way  wound 
gradually  towards  Lansing. 


21 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Her  thoughts  were  with  her  father,  but  across 
her  anxiety  flashed  strange  lights  in  which  she 
saw  Engel's  face. 

That  speech  of  hers  had  been  brutal.  If  he 
had  been  killed,  could  she  have  left  him? 

"Dr.  Engel,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "it  was  not 
true.  If  you  had  been  killed  just  now,  I  would 
not  have  left  you." 

"So?  But  I  did  not  think  you  would,"  he 
laughed.  The  hearty  sound  shook  the  dark- 
ness round  them.  "Tell  me,  then,  you  weak 
little  one,  what  could  you  have  done?" 

"I  would  have  sat  beside  you  till  morning." 

"But  then,  have  you  no  fear?" 

"I  should  have  been  so  sorry  I  wouldn't  have 
felt  anything  else." 

The  silence  that  fell  after  that  throbbed  in  his 
ears  with  noisy  significance.  He  did  not  speak 
again  till  his  exclamation  roused  Philippa. 
"Gott  sei  dank!  it  is  Lansing  at  last!" 

The  lights  buzzed  about  the  diligence  station. 
Philippa  sprang  up,  but  his  hand  detained  her. 

"Wait  till  I  come  back  to  you." 

She  was  frozen.  Her  teeth  chattered  while 
she  waited  in  that  long,  long  minute  of  his  ab- 
sence. He  came  back. 

"Little  one — little  one — " 

His  voice  broke,  and  a  new,  fierce  cold  took 
hold  of  the  girl  and  made  her  shiver  in  every 
muscle. 

22 


Doctor  Engel 

"He  is  dead,"  she  whispered. 

Engel  carried  her  into  the  hotel,  where  a  fire 
was  burning,  and  where  the  porters  stood, 
hushed  and  sympathetic. 

He  loosened  her  furs,  rubbed  her  hands. 
They  brought  hot  brandy,  and  in  a  little  while 
she  struggled  to  her  feet. 

"I  must  go — I  must  see — " 

"I  will  first  go.     Wait  for  me." 

He  beckoned  the  men  away.  Philippa  sat 
dazed  and  stunned.  He  came  back  again,  and 
she  followed  him  to  the  room.  In  the  same  hor- 
rible dream  she  found  herself  turning  from  what 
she  saw  and  clinging  to  Engel's  arm.  It  was 
only  for  a  minute.  She  drew  away,  and  stood 
steadily. 

"I  will  stay  here,"  she  said,  in  a  thick  voice. 

Engel's  lips  opened,  but  the  look  on  her  face 
decided  him.  He  went  out  and  left  her. 

The  swift,  chill  hours  passed ;  the  hours  that 
travelled  so  fast  they  were  years,  changing  the 
girl  into  the  woman.  And  yet  what  long,  slow 
hours  they  were  of  uttermost  anguish. 

At  six  o'clock  Engel  brought  her  some  coffee. 
She  rose  from  her  knees  beside  the  bed  and 
drank  it,  choking.  His  face  moved  her. 

"Haven't  you  been  to  sleep?"  she  asked. 
Even  her  voice  was  changed. 

"But  I  was  not  tired,"  he  said.  Then  he  told 
her  what  he  had  done,  speaking  softly.  She 

23 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

listened,  half  understanding.  The  only  thing 
clear  was  that  she  could  start  for  England  in  a 
few  hours.  Engel  had  assumed  that  she  would 
wish  to  take  her  father  home. 

"I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that  I  could  have 
gone  with  you,"  he  said,  "but  I  will  telegraph  to 
your  relatives  to  meet  you." 

She  lifted  her  smitten  face. 

"I  have  no  relatives,"  she  said,  blankly. 

"Your  friends,  then." 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling  pitifully. 

"None,  either,  near  enough.  Daddy  and  I 
never  wanted  any  one  else." 

His  glance  strayed  to  the  pillow,  crumpled 
where  her  head  had  rested  beside  that  other 
head,  back  again  where  she  stood,  frail  and 
small  and  lonely. 

"What  then?"  he  said  hoarsely,  when  he  found 
his  voice.  She  looked  at  him.  He  turned  away, 
but  she  had  seen  the  tenderness  and  pain  in  his 
eyes. 

A  wave  of  emotion  broke  up  the  calmness  of 
her  face.  It  passed,  leaving  her  still  more  white 
and  shrunken. 

"I  told  you  a  lie  yesterday,"  she  said.  "If 
you  had  been  killed,  I  would  have  gone  to  Lan- 
sing without  you.  I  wouldn't  have  stayed  with 
you.  You  were  nothing  to  me;  Daddy  was 
everything." 

The  voice  echoed  curiously  in  the  hollow 
24 


Doctor  Engel 

silence  of  death.  She  held  herself  proudly  a 
moment. 

Suddenly  she  ran  to  the  bed  and  gathered  the 
dead  man  in  her  arms  and  pressed  her  face  to 
his,  moaning. 

Engel  walked  to  the  window,  moved  and  dis- 
tressed as  he  had  not  been  before  in  all  his 
experience  of  sorrow.  He  drew  the  curtain 
aside,  and  stood  there,  seeing  nothing.  But  the 
night  had  been  cloven  through  by  a  stroke  of 
dawn.  Already  the  east  was  awake. 

He  gazed  out,  wrestling  with  himself,  the 
words  it  would  be  wiser  to  leave  unsaid.  Then 
he  stepped  to  her  side  and  touched  her  gently. 

"I  will  take  him  to  the  Mittenthal — to  sleep 
in  the  peace  of  the  snow  and  pines.  And  you — 
and  you — " 

He  could  not  bid  her  go  back  to  England, 
where  she  had  no  friends,  and  he  would  not  ask 
her  to  return  to  the  Mittenthal.  He  distrusted 
himself.  And  long  ago  he  had  said  he  would 
never  trust  a  woman  again. 

His  silence  spoke  louder  than  speech;  but 
Philippa  was  listening  to  another  voice:  "Snow 
and  pines.  Death  and  immortality."  Strange  that 
they  were  almost  the  last  words  her  father  had 
said  to  her.  And  what  else  had  he  said?  "/ 
leave  you  to  the  care  of  the  good  Doctor. ' ' 

She  stood  up  and  gazed  searchingly  into 
Engel's  face,  and  read  the  distrust,  the  pity,  the 
25 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

strength,  and  the  weakness  that  battled  together 
there. 

"I  thought — I  would  have  liked — to  go  back — 
to  the  Mittenthal,"  she  faltered. 

"As  you  please,  of  course,"  he  answered. 
His  tone  startled  her.  She  looked  at  him  dis- 
mayed. She  had  reached  out  her  hand  to  her 
friend,  and  it  had  struck  a  wall  of  ice. 

Her  face  and  figure  stiffened;  she  turned 
proudly  away.  What  were  the  last  words  her 
father  had  said  to  her?  "  The  ice  will  melt  in  the 
sun.  Be  patient. ' ' 

When  she  spoke  again  there  was  a  new  quality 
in  her  voice  that  set  Engel  at  a  great  distance 
from  her — outside  the  circle  of  her  obligations. 

"I  have  decided  to  take  my  father  to  the  Mit- 
tenthal, Dr.  Engel." 


26 


CHAPTER   II 

PHILIPPA   ALCESTIS 

There  was  one  grave  more  in  the  friedhof  of 
the  Mittenthal — that  pathetic  burial-place  where 
the  sleepers  are  young.  Gathered  together 
from  all  nations,  they  rest  in  the  high  valley 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Alps.  The  moan  of 
pines  is  their  requiem.  The  stars  light  the 
graves;  the  snow  folds  itself  round  them. 

There  was  one  grave  more — a  black  gash  in 
the  snow.  Philippa  stood  beside  it  while  six 
feet  of  relentless  earth  set  their  bars  between 
herself  and  her  dead.  She  was  not  conscious  of 
what  was  passing.  The  sun  fenced  the  grave 
with  a  lattice  of  rays.  The  ice-crystals  were  in 
blossom,  rainbow  flowers  of  the  snow.  There 
was  a  waveless  sea  of  blue  overhead.  Deep 
called  unto  deep;  the  unplumbed  depth  of  those 
six  feet  answered  the  unfathomed  depth  of  the 
blue.  But  in  the  girl's  heart  was  a  deeper  deep, 
whose  silence  cried  aloud  and  stayed  not.  The 
grave  was  almost  full.  The  thud  that  had 
echoed  among  the  gravestones  was  growing  more 
muffled.  Death  had  struck  a  silence  through 
27 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

earth's  voices,  and  life  had  ,,been  quick  to  fill  up 
the  void. 

Philippa  stood  there  till  the  coverlet  of  snow 
was  spread  over  her  father  and  the  men  who  had 
committed  earth  to  earth  had  gone  away.  Miss 
Blake  and  the  Professor  and  Simplicity  Baldwin 
had  been  at  the  service  in  the  church,  but  only 
Dr.  Engel  had  gone  with  her  to  the  friedhof. 
He  stood  apart,  watching  the  little  black  figure, 
solitary  in  its  setting  of  dead  people.  He  had 
watched  many  mourners  round  other  graves,  but 
none  had  touched  him  as  this  girl  touched  him. 
His  glance  stayed  with  her  ashen  face,  the 
underlip  fallen,  a  white  line  below  the  whiter 
line  of  the  teeth.  She  did  not  strive  nor  cry, 
but  youth  had  gone  from  her. 

He  had  no  comfort  to  give  her.  He  needed 
comfort  himself  for  the  pain  of  his  powerlessness. 
Suddenly  the  tinkle  of  bells  rained  through  the 
silence.  A  gay  procession  of  sleighs  was  passing 
the  friedhof.  The  horses  were  festooned  with 
scarlet  and  blue,  the  harness  shone  with  gold. 
In  each  sleigh  sat  a  young  man  and  a  girl,  the 
betrothed  lovers  of  one  of  the  villages  keeping 
their  yearly  fest.  Their  voices  and  laughing 
filled  the  morning.  Engel  had  frowned  at  them 
ten  times.  To-day  he  frowned  at  them  more 
than  ever. 

Some  one  blew  a  reveillt  on   the   horn,   and 
Philippa  looked  up,  startled  into  life. 
28 


Phflippa  Alcestis 

The  wreaths  of  colour,  the  red  and  yellow 
kerchiefs  of  the  women,  the  shining  harness, 
struck  a  crude  contrast  with  the  cold  white 
mound  that  was  her  world  of  pain.  She  shud- 
dered at  the  noise  of  the  horn.  No  reveiltt 
would  ever  wake  him  again. 

She  stumbled  along  the  path  to  Engel's  sleigh. 
He  took  the  seat  beside  her,  and  told  his  servant, 
Jakob  Meyer,  to  drive  to  the  Hotel  Royal. 

The  bells  of  the  other  sleighs  jangled  before 
them,  at  first  in  the  distance,  then  nearer  and 
louder.  Jakob  Meyer  pulled  up.  A  snowdrift 
had  fallen  across  the  road,  and  it  delayed  the 
procession  of  lovers.  When  they  started  again 
Engel  and  Philippa  were  at  the  end  of  the  caval- 
cade. 

Engel  half  smiled;  he  could  afford  to  smile, 
he  thought  cynically.  He  had  served  Philippa 
with  the  generosity  of  a  man  for  whom  there 
could  be  no  danger  in  a  woman's  friendship. 
Death  had  drawn  them  together  for  the  moment; 
life  would  assuredly  estrange  them.  After  this 
he  need  not  see  her  again. 

But  the  next  day  he  stood  at  Philippa's  bed- 
side watching  her,  his  face  grave,  the  lines  round 
his  mouth  rigid. 

He  was  used  to  fight  with  death.     In  the  Mit- 
tenthal    the   grim    fight   was    fought    month  by 
month,  day  by  day,  and  his  arm  had  sometimes 
decided  the  contest  in  a  patient's  favour. 
29 


She  was  delirious.  Now  and  then  broken 
words  fell  among  her  moans.  "/  have  trodden 
the  winepress  alone. "  "  Lover  and  friend  hast  thou 
put  far  from  me. " 

It  wrung  his  heart  to  hear  her,  but  face  and 
voice  did  not  relent  from  their  reserve.  Miss 
Blake,  sitting  beside  the  girl,  wiped  her  tears  to 
look  resentfully  at  him.  "You  are  a  hard  man!" 
she  said  to  herself.  "How  can  you  listen  with 
that  face?  You  have  no  heart." 

Even  the  Professor  was  vexed  with  Engel  in 
these  days.  He  wasted  his  time  waiting  in  the 
corridor  for  the  Doctor  to  come  out  of  Philippa's 
room;  but  when  he  asked  anxiously  for  news  of 
her,  Engel  would  pass  him  with  a  curt,  "It  is  a 
snowy  day.  Good  morning." 

Simplicity  Baldwin  made  a  bet  that  she  would 
force  him  to  answer  her  questions;  but  she  lost 
two  hours  among  the  crowd  in  his  waiting-room, 
and  paid  a  Napoleon  for  the  consultation,  and 
came  away  defeated.  Engel  refused  to  discuss 
his  patients  with  each  other.  He  did  not  spare 
himself  in  watching  Philippa's  case:  Night  after 
night  he  sat  up  listening  to  her  delirium.  It  was 
pathetic  to  guess  the  story  of  her  devotion  to 
her  father,  to  see  glimpses  of  her  nature  uncon- 
sciously laid  bare.  Listening  to  her  he  forgot 
the  bitterness  that  had  embittered  his  life.  A 
woman  had  shattered  his  faith  in  womanhood. 
Looking  into  Philippa's  soul,  he  was  compelled 


Philippa  Alcestis 

to  believe  in  woman  again.  One  night,  sitting 
in  the  shaded  room,  he  caught  himself  wishing 
that  he  had  met  Philippa  before  Isolde  had  ruined 
his  life. 

The  weakness  was  only  momentary.  He  drew 
himself  up,  and  his  mouth  twisted '""cynically. 
He  would  never  trust  a  woman  again.  Women 
had  no  honour,  no  truth.  They  were  liars  by 
instinct.  Even  Philippa  had  lied  to  him. 

Every  day  the  fight  with  death  grew  grimmer. 
Philippa  hovered  between  two  worlds.  The 
crisis  was  near,  and  Engel  only  left  the  room  to 
see  his  other  patients.  Miss  Blake  and  Simpli- 
city Baldwin  and  the  nurses  relieved  each  other; 
but  he  took  no  rest.  He  scarcely  gave  himself 
time  for  food.  He  snatched  sleep  in  a  chair 
beside  her.  So  he  held  the  reins  of  life,  and 
never  relaxed  his  hold  until  the  danger  was 
passed. 

On  the  day  when  she  opened  her  eyes  with 
recognition  in  them,  he  could  not  trust  himself 
to  speak.  He  held  her  hand,  counting  the  beat 
of  the  pulse  while  his  own  heart-beat  deafened 
him.  When  he  lifted  his  head  again  the  cynical 
smile  was  under  his  moustache.  He  gave  a 
sharp  order  to  the  nurse,  and  went  away.  Miss 
Blake  looked  after  him  reproachfully.  "He  has 
no  heart,"  she  whispered. 

"My!"  Simplicity  Baldwin  exclaimed  under 
breath,  "I  would  as  soon  expect  to  see  feeling  in 
31 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

a  cast-iron  stovepipe.     He's  a  perfect  cheesemite 
of  a  man,  but  he's  a  giant  of  a  doctor." 

That  night  Engel  sat  in  his  study,  his  knitted 
brows  contradicting  the  softness  of  his  eyes.  At 
last  he  got  up,  pushed  his  chair  back,  and  tossed 
the  hair  from  his  forehead.  The  gesture  had  in 
it  the  decision  of  youth.  He  looked  round  the 
room,  at  the  books  lining  the  walls,  the  books 
piled  on  the  chairs,  the  books  hiding  the  carpet. 
They  were  his  trusted  friends  of  years.  To- 
night their  faces  were  blank.  He  pulled  his 
beard  with  impatient  fingers,  and  his  glance 
wandered  round  and  round  the  room.  It  was 
dull  and  exceedingly  lonely.  He  felt  restless 
and  unstrung  after  the  tension  of  the  last  days. 
He  missed  the  toss  of  a  restless  head  on  a  pillow, 
the  sight  of  a  white  little  face,  the  sound  of  a 
tender  voice/  He  thought  over  the  events  of  the 
day,  pacing  up  and  down. 

His  glance  was  arrested  by  the  mirror  over 
his  desk.  He  paused  before  it  and  studied  him- 
self. He  saw  a  face  with  a  mouth  hidden  by  the 
close-cut  blond  beard,  deep  eyes  overhung  by 
a  fell  of  brown  hair,  a  brow  lined  deeply.  Then 
he  saw  that  the  eyes  were  wistful.  He  turned 
away  with  a  gesture  of  denial.  Had  he  not 
schooled  himself  to  loneliness  and  content? 
Would  any  woman  ever  give  him  the  quiet  com- 
radeship he  had  found  in  his  books?  He  was 
32 


Philippa  Alcestis 

restless  to-night,  but  the  mood  would  pass.  It 
was  due  to  the  overstrain  of  watching.  He  was 
dissatisfied  only  because  he  missed  the  absorb- 
ing pathological  interest  of  the  case. 

He  sat  in  his  chair,  thinking.  The  denial  had 
gone  from  his  eyes;  they  were  wistful  again. 

He  thought  of  the  years  in  which  he  had  seen 
the  guests  at  the  feast  of  life,  and  had  not  sat  at 
the  board.  The  feast  was  spread  even  here  in 
the  Mittenthal;  but  those  who  had  been  bidden 
to  it  were  the  halt  and  the  lame  and  the  blind. 
Engel  was  among  them  as  one  that  served.  He 
had  grown  silent  as  he  watched  the  pity  of  the 
spectacle. 

The  room  was  close.  He  felt  stifled,  and  he 
opened  the  window  and  gazed  out,  whistling 
softly,  drinking  in  the  peace  of  the  night.  The 
draught  was  tonic  and  bracing.  The  brilliant 
starlight  of  the  Alps  glittered  over  mountain  and 
valley.  The  stars  that  had  gazed  down  on  the 
death-struggle  of  many  poor  souls  in  the  valley 
watched  his  life-struggle  with  kindly  encouraging 
eyes.  They  soothed  his  mood.  His  restless- 
ness passed,  the  whistle  died  away.  After  all,  it 
was  a  good  thing  to  live  here.  He  was  face  to 
face  with  the  great  forces,  love  and  death  and 
sorrow,  and  life.  He  saw  human  nature  at  its 
highest,  if  sometimes  at  its  lowest;  and  he  knew, 
as  few  men,  the  irony,  the  pathos,  the  humour 
of  it.  He  knew  Death,  too — Death  that  came 
33 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

creeping;  Death  that  galloped ;  Death  that  waited 
so  long  that  Life  prayed  for  his  coming,  and 
even  Love  entreated  him ;  Death  that  struck 
sharp  and  swift  between  two  kisses;  Death  that 
passed  the  old  man  and  snatched  at  the  child 
before  its  lips  had  bruised  the  mother's  breast. 

He  had  seen  Love — the  Love  that  was  stronger 
than  Death,  weaker  than  Life.  He  had  looked 
into  its  blank  eyes,  he  had  turned  away  from  its 
doom.  And  Sorrow  he  .had  known;  he  knew  by 
heart  every  line  of  his  twisted,  ironical  face.  He 
had  felt  his  biting  humour,  his  bitter  mirth  had 
made  him  shudder.  Sorrow  that  gathered  the 
souls  of  Love  and  Life  and  Death  into  his  hands 
and  played  at  dice  with  them — 

Who  was  that  singing?  He  lifted  himself, 
listening.  Clear  and  sweet  came  the  sound  of 
music,  a  melody  that  might  have  been  written  in 
the  score  of  the  starlight. 

It  was  some  time  before  Engel  recognized  the 
sound  of  Sonnie  Baker's  violin  coming  from  the 
balcony  of  the  Hotel  Royal. 

The  violin  had  been  silent  for  the  last  ten 
days.  Sonnie  had  had  no  heart  to  play  while  his 
friend  Philippa  hung  between  life  and  death. 
Now  the  notes  rang  out  shrill  and  triumphant. 
The  boy  was  improvising  one  of  his  witches' 
dances  of  sound.  The  music  was  bewitched.  It 
came  across  the  snow,  gliding,  floating,  twist- 
ing, twirling.  Now  it  danced  with  light  feet, 
34 


Philippa  Alcestis 

springing  high;  now  it  stepped  with  measured 
precision;  now  it  swept  with  wide  curves  about 
the  silence;  now  it  drifted  in  great  waves  of 
melody;  now  it  tinkled  in  a  thin  stream  of  song. 
It  shifted  and  changed  with  every  moment,  but 
under  the  melody  was  always  the  sound  of  danc- 
ing, the  tapping  of  joyous  heels. 

Engel  listened  until  the  thing  got  into  his 
head  and  caught  his  thoughts,  and  whirled  them 
round  in  rhythm  and  measure.  He  had  not  writ- 
ten verses  for  years,  but  here  were  some  set  to 
Sonnie's  crazy  fiddling.  He  turned  into  the 
room,  singing  in  a  soft,  booming  voice,  and  sat 
down  at  his  desk,  and  wrote  while  he  sang.  His 
eyes  had  grown  bright,  the  lines  on  his  face  were 
smoothed  out.  When  he  finished  writing  he 
threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

The  laugh  echoed  among  the  books  with  a 
hollow  sound;  its  voice  was  the  voice  of  a  ghost. 
It  startled  him.  He  looked  round  guiltily;  then 
laughed  again,  that  the  books  might  grow  accus- 
tomed to  the  sound  of  a  merry  heart.  Yes, 
surely,  the  glad  days  were  coming.  That  crazy 
fiddling  had  charmed  away  the  past.  The  gaunt 
old  years  of  doubt,  the  rats  that  had  eaten  up 
his  youth,  had  followed  the  music  away  out  of 
the  valley,  beyond  the  snow,  beyond  the  night. 
He  would  never  feel  their  teeth  again.  He  was 
free  to  love.  Youth  was  before  him,  and  life, 
and  love — and  love! 

35 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

He  read  his  verses  over  again;  then,  proud 
and  shy  all  at  once,  he  wrote  the  title,  "To 
Philippa  Alcestis. " 

He  had  written  on  one  of  the  slips  he  kept  for 
his  prescriptions.  He  laughed  shyly  to  see  love 
verses  on  the  paper  he  used  for  ordering  bitter 
draughts.  It  was  all  wrong,  of  course.  He 
must  write  them  on  rose-petals,  tinted  with  sun- 
rise, perfumed  with  dawn.  But  he  had  some 
note-paper  somewhere.  Where  had  he  put  it? 
It  was  so  long  since  he  had  written  anything  but 
prescriptions  he  had  forgotten  that  he  possessed 
note-paper. 

He  got  up  hastily  and  began  turning  over  the 
drawers  in  a  hurried  hunt  for  the  paper.  He 
tossed  over  the  contents  recklessly.  The  paper 
was  certainly  somewhere!  What  was  this  rub- 
bish? A  withered  sprig  of  greenery.  How  had 
it  got  there?  He  took  up  the  little  branch.  The 
leaves  fell  and  scattered  a  faint  sweetness  about 
the  room.  The  rosemary  struck  him  like  a  blow. 
He  sat  down,  a  slash  of  pain  showing  across  his 
eyes.  He  covered  his  face,  but  he  could  not 
shut  out  the  picture  of  the  Italian  garden,  with 
its  rosemary  and  lavender  bushes,  its  olive  trees 
and  pale  pink  roses.  Was  it  indeed  only  ten 
years  since  he  had  loitered  about  the  monastery 
garden  among  the  flowers?  It  must  surely  be  a 
hundred  years  since  he  had  taken  that  journey 
to  Florence  to  bring  home  his  bride.  Isolde  was 
36 


Philippa  Alcestis 

there,  waiting  for  him.  They  had  not  met  for  a 
year.  He  had  been  too  busy  passing  his  exam- 
ination, getting  a  practice,  furnishing  the  house, 
to  visit  her.  Now  everything  was  ready  for  the 
little  wife. 

He  did  not  recognize  the  demure  "maiden  in 
the  fashionable  woman  he  found  at  Florence; 
but  the  voice  was  hers.  He  would  know  that 
peculiar  ringing  sweetness  anywhere.  She  had 
grown  prettier  than  ever;  but  her  gaiety  clashed 
with  his  gravity.  In  the  old  days  she  had  been 
grave,  too.  The  months  must  have  sobered 
him.  He  could  not  follow  her  butterfly  flights, 
and  he  looked  on  them  puzzled  and  wondering. 
In  Berlin  she  had  been  shy,  and  very  proud  of 
her  tall  student.  She  was  no  longer  shy,  no 
longer  proud,  though  he  had  taken  a  high 
degree.  She  objected  to  his  beard,  his  old-fash- 
ioned, awkward  manners.  She  laughed  at  him 
before  Major  Stannard,  the  English  officer,  and 
called  him  a  German  rustic.  She  mocked  at  his 
clothes,  at  his  big  hands  and  feet,  his  tenderness, 
his  obedience.  She  put  off  their  wedding-day, 
and  the  graver  he  became  the  more  she  laughed. 
But  it  never  occurred  to  his  simple  loyalty  to 
doubt  her.  His  awakening  had  been  cruelly 
sudden.  She  had  gone  to  lunch  with  the  Stan- 
nards,  who  had  a  villa  outside  Florence,  and  he 
had  arranged  to  meet  her  at  the  Certosa  which 
was  near  the  villa  and  bring  her  back.  Hq 
37 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

wanted  to  see  the  quaint  old  monastery,  and  he 
set  out  an  hour  before  the  time  of  the  appoint- 
ment, meaning  to  go  over  the  place  before  she 
arrived. 

He  had  seen  the  frescoes  in  the  chapel,  and  the 
Delia  Robbias  in  the  cloisters,  and  he  wandered 
about  the  gardens  feeling  the  spell  of  the  silence. 
Here  life  slept.  Peace  held  the  olive  trees,  the 
rosemary  and  lavender  bushes — a  peace  broken 
only  by  the  colour  of  the  small  pink  roses  that 
seemed  out  of  place  among  the  sober  livery  of 
the  bushes. 

He  sat  down  on  Michael  Angelo's  well.  His 
love  for  Isolde  struck  deep  through  the  peace, 
like  the  shaft  of  the  well  that  pierced  the  earth. 
At  last  it  touched  the  chill  of  his  cold  doubts. 

The  hour  dreamed  itself  away.  He  saw  the 
monks,  white-robed  and  silent-sandaled,  glide 
past  him  like  ghosts — a  dream  within  a  dream. 
Outside  the  walls  the  sunlight  blazed,  and  all  the 
far  purple  hills  and  the  white  villas  of  the  slopes 
seemed  shouting  for  joy. 

But  under  the  loggia  there  was  no  sun,  and  the 
walls  that  shut  out  the  world  shut  out  also  the 
vivid  life  of  the  summer  day. 

Engel,  restless,  unsatisfied,  and  foreboding, 
wondered  if  life  could  give  anything  better  than 
the  peace  within  the  Certosa  walls. 

A  sudden  overwhelming  distrust  of  the  future 
had  seized  him.  In  his  dim,  workaday  life  Isolde 
38 


Philippa  Alcestis 

would  be  as  out  of  place  as  were  the  small  pink 
roses  among  the  grey  ranks  of  olive  and  rose- 
mary and  lavender.  The  sight  of  the  roses 
blushing  and  smiling  disturbed  him.  He  walked 
slowly  towards  the  chapel,  and  as  he  went  he 
picked  a  branch  of  rosemary,  whose  lilac  blos- 
soms reminded  him  of  the  Isolde  to  whom  he 
had  been  betrothed. 

The  chapel  was  very  dark.  Coming  in  from 
the  glare  he  could  barely  distinguish  the  cowls 
of  the  monks  kneeling  before  the  altar.  He  was 
in  a  dream  again,  but  here  the  vagueness  and 
obscurity  of  the  dream  were  pierced  through  by 
the  poignant  anguish  of  the  figure  on  the  cruci- 
fix. Engel  took  off  his  hat  and  slipped  into  a 
seat  in  the  darkest  corner.  The  monotone  of 
the  monks  droned  on,  like  the  droning  of  the 
bees  outside  in  the  garden.  Had  the  monks 
found  the  eternal  flower  which  held  all  the  sweet- 
ness of  life?  The  cross  rose  from  the  altar  tall- 
stemmed  and  white  like  a  lily.  It  might  be  that 
pain  and  sacrifice  shrined  the  fragrance  of 
immortal  love.  His  thoughts  turned  to  Isolde; 
but  she  struck  a  false  note  in  this  house,  where 
men  had  wrestled  with  the  principalities  and 
powers  of  passion  and  sin,  with  the  world  and 
the  flesh  and  the  devil.  Little  butterfly  Isolde 
had  nothing  to  do  with  nature's  deeper  mean- 
ings. 

The  breath  of  summer  chased  the  shadows  in 
39 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

the  chapel  up  to  the  dim  altar  and  the  incense 
wreaths.  The  monks  went  away  to  the  cloisters; 
Engel  remained.  He  would  have  been  content 
to  stay  there  forever,  and  bury  himself  and  his 
fear  of  the  future  in  the  monastery  walls. 

After  a  while  thought  struggled  to  life.  The 
secret  of  peace  was  not  here.  The  monks 
touched  the  fringes  of  the  secret;  they  had  not 
lifted  the  curtain.  The  sweetness  of  life  might 
be  shrined  in  sacrifice  and  pain,  but  it  must  be 
in  the  pain  of  quivering  flesh,  in  the  shudder  of 
the  blood  in  the  veins,  in  the  hearts  of  men  and 
women,  not  in  dead  wood.  No  worship  of  a 
carved  Christ  on  a  dead  tree,  no  pathos  of  a 
plaster  Calvary,  could  give  peace  or  take  the 
sting  -from  pain.  Man  must  himself  be  Christ, 
must  himself  climb  Calvary  bearing  his  cross, 
must  give  himself  to  death,  if  he  would  taste  the 
strength  and 'the  sweetness,  the  passion  and  the 
peace  of  Godhead.  The  God  in  the  man  could 
accept  no  cloister  smaller  than  life,  no  order 
narrower  than  that  of  humanity.  When  Engel 
came  out  into  the  hot  blaze  his  face  was  grey 
like  the  grey  of  the  olive  trees  under  which  he 
walked  to  seek  Isolde.  He  stooped  like  an  old 
man. 

He  found  her  sitting  on  Michael  Angelo's  well, 
crowned  with  the  roses  that  Major  Stannard  had 
gathered  for  her.  At  the  sight  a  fierce,  unrea- 
soning jealousy  seized  him — the  crown  of  roses 
40 


Philippa  Alcestis 

set  her  altogether  outside  his  quiet  life.  His  worn 
face  was  still  more  grey  in  the  sun.  He  saw 
Isolde  shrink  from  his  eyes.  Her  self-conscious- 
ness looked  like  guilt.  She  stepped  towards 
Stannard  as  if  asking  for  protection  from  Engel. 

He  saw  Stannard's  swift  look  towards  him,  and 
his  step  backward  from  Isolde's  appeal.  That 
also  looked  like  conscious  guilt. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Isolde,"  Engel  said.  His 
voice  was  cold  and  still;  it  had  been  drowned  in 
the  deep  of  his  pain.  "Don't  be  afraid.  I  am 
not  blaming  you  that  you  prefer  this  man  to  me. 
I  understand  now  why  you  don't  wish  to  marry 
me.  And  I  give  you  back  your  freedom." 

He  turned  his  back  on  her  sharp  cry.  "I  give 
you  back  your  freedom,"  he  repeated.  "You 
will  be  happier  with  him  than  with  me." 

He  took  no  notice  of  the  trembling  voice  that 
called  him  entreatingly.  He  went  back  and  hid 
himself  in  the  chapel,  and  once  again  a  soul 
hanging  upon  his  cross  rent  the  stillness  and  the 
night  with  the  cry  of  uttermost  anguish,  "My 
God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me." 

He  stumbled  down  the  steep  hill  from  the 
Certosa,  through  the  ilex  groves,  into  the 
podere,  where  the  contadini  sang  as  they  worked. 
The  purple  hills  before  him  rioted  in  sunlight, 
and  the  white  villas  of  the  slopes  shouted  for 
joy.  He  turned  his  back  upon  them,  and  walked 
fiercely  westward  to  meet  the  sunset. 
4* 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

It  was  midnight  when  he  returned  to  Florence. 
His  fingers  were  still  clenched  round  the  little 
branch  of  rosemary.  The  lilac  blossoms  were 
dead.  He  threw  it  among  the  papers  on  his 
table.  He  must  have  brought  it  away  with 
them,  and  it  had  lain  unnoticed  in  the  drawer 
until  now. 

That  was  ten  years  ago.  He  had  found  his 
monastery  among  the  mountains,  his  cloister  in 
the  snows  of  the  Mittenthal.  His  altar  was  pain; 
above  it  hung  the  picture  of  Life  bearing  the 
babe  Death.  And  here  he  ministered. 

It  was  a  lonely  life,  but  its  solitude  had  satis- 
fied him.  His  books  and  his  profession  supplied 
interest.  He  lived  alone,  forgetting  the  woman 
who  had  destroyed  his  faith  in  woman,  avoiding 
all  other  women  for  her  sake.  And  the  life  had 
contented  him  until  now.  It  would  content  him 
again.  Had 'he  not  said  he  would  never  trust 
another  woman?  He  was  a  fool  to  let  Sonnie's 
fiddling  charm  away  his  wise  resolutions.  He 
lifted  his  head.  His  eyes  were  stern.  They  fell 
on  the  verses  he  had  written;  the  fallen  leaves 
of  rosemary  almost  hid  the  lines. 

"To  Philippa  Alcestis. "  He  smiled  bitterly. 
"No;  to  Isolde  Alcestis.  It  is  not  Love,  but 
Isolde,  who  has  come  back  to  me  from  the 
dead." 

He  tore  the  paper  into  pieces  and  tossed  them 
with  the  dry  twig  into  the  fire.  A  piece  of  the 
42 


Philippa  Alcestis 

paper  fluttered  away  and  fell  on  the  carpet. 
Engel  rose  impatiently  and  picked  it  up  to  throw 
it  after  the  others.  Two  words  were  on  it, 
"Philippa  Alcestis."  He  saw  them  and  he 
stopped.  A  wavering  tenderness  came  into  his 
eyes.  Then  he  deliberately  pushed  the  paper 
between  the  bars  of  the  grate.  Before  the  flame 
caught  it  he  snatched  it  away  again  and  crushed 
it  into  his  pocket. 

He  started  guiltily,  and  turned,  hearing  a  noise 
behind  him.    It  was  only  the  rats  in  the  wainscot. 


43 


CHAPTER    III 

SONNIE 

Sonnie  Baker  stood  at  his  window  watching 
the  day  outside.  The  grey  kitten  sat  purring 
on  his  shoulder.  The  morning  was  dull,  houses 
and  valley  stood  swathed.  The  folds  of  the  mist 
were  light  on  the  hill-slopes;  they  thickened 
where  the  Griinwasser  strove  against  the  ice  on 
its  bank. 

In  the  summer  the  river  had  boasted  of  its 
freedom  as  it  clattered  past  the  woods.  It  had 
mocked  the  rooted  pines  and  the  winds  valley- 
prisoned.  Now  in  the  winter,  when  the  pines 
defied  the  frost  and  the  air  shook  out  its  starred 
banners,  the  Griinwasser  was  fettered.  The  ice 
clutched  at  its  feet,  but  could  not  keep  them, 
and  the  river  stumbled  moaning  through  the 
valley  towards  the  lake  in  the  sun. 

Sonnie  listened  gloomily  to  its  moaning.  The 
mountains  before  him  were  the  walls  of  a  prison. 
The  wreaths  of  mist  were  the  coils  of  the  rope 
that  bound  him.  He  could  not  escape,  like  the 
river,  to  the  south.  At  the  end  of  the  valley  the 
Ducanalp  stood  like  a  sentinel  guarding  the  pass. 
The  single  fang  seemed  to  threaten  the  sky. 
44 


Sonnie 

He  leaned  his  face  against  the  window,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  beat  of  the  thoughts  clanging  the 
knell  of  his  career. 

But  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  not  get 
well  again.  It  was  only  six  weeks  since  he  had 
had  his  great  success.  He  still  felt  the  thrill  of 
the  crowded  hall  and  heard  the  cheers  of  the 
audience.  They  had  recalled  him  again  and 
again,  and  he  had  played  till  the  excitement  had 
made  him  faint.  The  faces  had  pressed  closer 
and  closer  until  they  had  stifled  him.  His  violin 
had  clattered  with  a  great  noise  to  the  platform. 
Then  blackness  had  fallen  between  him  and  the 
thousand  faces.  It  all  seemed  so  long  ago. 
And  now  Dr.  Engel  would  not  promise  that  he 
would  ever  face  an  audience  again. 

He  put  up  his  hands  and  drew  the  kitten  to 
his  cheek.  His  eyes,  sunken  in  the  thin  face, 
still  shone  with  the  genius  that  had  been  his 
doom.  The  livid  whiteness  of  the  hands  against 
the  fur  caught  his  gaze.  He  studied  the  long 
artist-fingers,  the  knotted  knuckles.  Was  it 
true?  Did  Dr.  Engel's  silence  mean  that  his 
lungs  were  not  getting  better? 

The  Doctor  had  just  left  him.  Sonnie  could 
not  forget  the  haunting  pity  he  had  surprised  in 
his  eyes.  To  die  at  sixteen?  The  boy  shivered. 
It  was  very  weird  to  face  death  alone.  The 
comfortable  purring  of  the  kitten  accompanied 
his  thoughts.  By  and  by  he  twisted  round  into 
45 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

the  room.  No,  he  would  not  go  down  to  the 
balcony  yet.  Simplicity  Baldwin  and  her  Amer- 
icanisms would  not  amuse  him  to-day,  and 
Philippa  Joy  was  still  confined  to  her  room.  He 
did  not  wish  to  meet  the  echo  of  his  doom  on 
the  faces  of  the  other  invalids.  Their  gaiety 
would  be  more  ironical  even  than  usual.  It  was 
easy  for  them  to  be  happy  in  Mittenplatz.  They 
did  not  sacrifice  a  career.  And  if  he  had  to  die, 
it  would  be  better  to  go  back  to  London  and  live 
splendidly  for  three  months,  and  die  crowned, 
than  to  drag  out  his  life  in  a  place  like  this. 

The  mountains  would  mock  him  with  thoughts 
of  the  heights  he  had  meant  to  reach,  the  pines 
would  jeer  at  his  hopes  of  fame.  His  heart 
sickened. 

The  mountains  looked  pitiless  enough.  The 
Jakob's  Pitz  before  him  stared  unmoved  at  the 
boy's  despair.  He  was  so  small  a  thing  to  hurl 
himself  against  the  great  forces.  Would  these 
human  insects  never  learn  the  patience  of  nature, 
that  bore  the  snows  of  winter  with  the  same 
silence  that  carried  the  green  burden  of  sum- 
mer? There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
Babette  brought  in  Sonnie's  glass  of  hot  milk. 
She  was  breathless  to-day.  Her  gasps  sounded 
louder  than  Fifine's  purr.  Sonnie  looked  at  her 
with  new  sympathy.  He  understood  now  why 
Babette  was  so  attentive  to  him.  The  fellow 
feeling  had  come  into  his  own  heart. 
46 


Sonnie 

"Look  here,  Babette,  you  are  not  fit  to  work," 
he  said.  "You  look  perished.  Sit  down  and 
warm  yourself.  And  here — you  drink  this  milk. 
I'll  get  some  more  when  I  go  downstairs." 

He  pushed  the  armchair  before  the_  fire,  and 
the  maid  sat  down  gratefully.  She  was  the 
woman  who  waited  on  that  floor,  and  she  was 
almost  as  ill  as  most  of  those  she  waited  on. 
Sonnie  talked  to  her  while  she  warmed  herself 
and  drank  the  milk.  When  she  went  away  the 
weight  on  his  heart  had  lifted.  He  walked  to 
the  window  again,  and  this  time  his  face  was 
calm. 

Suddenly  the  sun  shone  out,  and  all  at  once 
the  valley  was  transfigured.  The  mists  rose 
trembling  from  the  river  and  fled,  torn  and  tat- 
tered, to  the  belt  of  pines. 

He  opened  his  window  and  stepped  out  onto 
the  balcony.  The  sting  in  the  cold  was  the 
sting  of  life. 

He  leaned  against  the  railing  and  looked  down 
towards  the  houses  clustered  round  the  church. 
They  splashed  the  snow  with  colour — pink  and 
yellow  and  green.  They  were  all  square  and 
hideous,  but  the  ugliness  had  been  blurred  by 
time.  The  road  was  dotted  with  people,  little 
black  figures  moving  towards  the  skating-rink, 
where  the  red  flags  flaunted.  A  blue  sleigh,  with 
a  tail  of  toboggans  behind  it,  clattered  past  the 
hotel.  The  bells  clashed  out  joyfully.  The 
47 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

valley  had  wakened,  and  its  face  was  alight  with 
life.  Even  the  pines  lost  their  gloom  where 
their  edges  were  pinked  out  against  the  glow. 
The  snow  tingled  with  light.  Sonnie's  eyes 
wakened,  too.  The  eagerness  came  back  to  his 
face;  his  eyes  flashed  and  darkened.  His  fingers 
beat  on  the  rail,  Fifine,  washing  her  face  on  the 
floor,  thought  it  was  a  game,  and  prepared  to 
spring.  But  suddenly  Sonnie  turned  into  the 
room,  caught  up  his  violin,  and  began  to  play. 
And  as  he  played  you  saw  the  light  rosy  on  the 
peaks,  sparkling  and  dancing  on  the  snow. 
Across  the  moan  of  the  Griinwasser  you  could 
hear  the  music  of  bells.  He  played  on.  At 
last,  breathless,  he  put  down  his  violin. 

"Marie  said  it  was  an  angel,  and  it's  only  a 
boy." 

Sonnie  started  up  and  looked  round  him.  The 
peculiar  ringing  intonation  of  the  voice  was  un- 
familiar. A  child  stood  in  the  doorway,  a  little 
thing  in  a  straight  black  frock.  She  had  yellow 
hair  and  big,  soft  eyes.  When  she  saw  his  face 
her  eyes  widened,  her  voice  dropped. 

"I  think  you  must  be  an  angel.  That's  what 
makes  your  face  white  and  shining."  Her  face 
was  awed,  but  she  walked  up  to  him  fearlessly. 

"When  I'm  an  angel  I'll  play  a  harp,  too." 

Sonnie  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  "Hello! 
where  have  you  come  from?" 

"I've  runned  away  from   Marie,"    she    said, 


Sonnie 

slyly.  "But  I  came  in  the  train  last  night,  smile 
and  miles,  with  my  Uncle  Rob — his  name  is 
Major  Sanderson,  and  we  must  be  velly  quiet, 
'cause  he's  velly  poorly.  I'm  Miss  Busybody. 
What's  your  name?" 

"Soniland  Baker — Sonnie,  if  you  like." 

He  smiled  at  the  child.  She  was  about  six 
years  old,  round  and  rosy  and  dimpled.  He 
liked  her  soft,  big  eyes. 

"I'll  call  you  Sonnie;  it's  abooful  name.  I'll 
call  my  doll  Sonnie,  too.  Did  you  come  down 
in  the  snow  with  the  other  angels?" 

"The  angels  don't  come  to  Mittenplatz,"  he 
said. 

"Yes,  they  does,"  she  cried,  eagerly.  "It's  a 
secret.  Marie  telled  me,  and  she  knows,  be- 
cause she's  German,  and  speaks  the  language. 
There's  angels  in  the  snow;  that's  why  it's  so 
white.  There's  heaps  and  heaps  of  'em.  And 
when  they  shake  their  wings  the  snow  is  full  of 
stars.  Marie  said  you  played  angel-music,  and 
I  came  to  see.  But  God  has  forgotten  your 
wings." 

"I'm  not  an  angel,  you  know,"  said  Sonnie. 

Her  face  fell.  "I'm  velly  much  disappointed," 
she  began;  then  her  lips  flowered  into  a  rose  of 
a  smile.  "Well,  maybe  if  you  make  angel-music, 
God  will  want  to  put  you  into  the  band  in 
Heaven.  There's  a  big  German  band  there, 
Marie  says.  And  all  the  angels  stand  round 
49 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

about  the  throne  and  play  harps.  I  like  angel- 
music.  Play  some  more." 

"Do  you  really  like  music,  my  music?"  Son- 
nie  asked. 

"Yes,  I  does,"  she  said,  earnestly.  "It 
makes  me  think  of  my  dear,  dear  little  kittie 
that  died.  She  squealed  like  that  when  I  pulled 
her  tail." 

"I  have  a  kitten,"  said  Sonnie,  "but  you 
mustn't  hurt  her." 

Miss  Busybody  gave  a  glance  at  Fifine. 

"I  loves  kittens,"  she  said,  soberly,  "but  I 
like  music  better."  She  climbed  on  a  chair,  and 
sat  with  legs  dangling  and  arms  folded,  looking 
expectantly  at  him.  Sonnie  took  up  his  violin 
again,  and  she  sat  mute  till  he  had  finished. 
Then  she  scrambled  down  from  the  chair,  and 
made  a  quaint  little  curtsey. 

"I'm  velly'much  obliged,  Sonnie;  and  when  I 
say  my  prayers  to  Marie  I'll  ask  God  to  put  you 
in  the  band  in  Heaven." 

She  was  half-way  to  the  door,  when  she  turned 
round,  balanced  herself  on  one  leg  and  tilted  her 
head,  and  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  growing  very 
big. 

"Let's  play  cat  and  mouse,"  she  said. 
"You're  a  mouse  and  I'm  the  grey  kitten  coming 
to  dead  you.  And  you  must  keep  getting  away, 
but  in  the  end  I'll  catch  you.  Now  then,  run!" 

The  game  was  not  over  till  Sonnie  had  been 
50 


Sonnie 

duly  caught  and  eaten.  After  the  child  was  gone 
he  threw  himself  on  the  sofa  and  laughed.  The 
blood  was  swinging  in  his  veins  again,  his  pulses 
were  beating.  Miss  Busybody  had  brought  back 
life. 

From  that  day  Sonnie's  loneliness  ended. 
Miss  Busybody  had  a  passion  for  music,  and 
while  he  played  would  sit  mute,  nursing  Fifine, 
her  big  eyes  fastened  worshippingly  on  Sonnie's 
face.  She  had  not  lost  her  first  impression  of 
him;  something  of  the  angel  still  lingered  about 
his  rapt  face  and  shining  eyes. 

When  Fifine  and  he  lay  on  the  balcony  in  his 
chaise  tongue,  she  would  bring  her  chair  and  sit 
beside  him,  and  tell  him  quaint  involved  histories 
of  her  dolls,  or  repeat  strange  versions  of  the 
legends  Marie  told  her.  Sonnie  had  no  time  for 
sad  thoughts. 

Dr.  Engel's  next  report  was  hopeful.  In  the 
fortnight  the  boy  had  done  wonders;  there  was 
distinct,  unexpected  improvement  in  his  condi- 
tion. 

Sonnie,  studying  the  Doctor's  face,  saw  the 
lines  relax  and  the  eyes  brighten. 

"So!  That  is  good!  Ah,  yes;  we  shall  make 
a  man  of  you.  One  day  you  shall  be  maestro. 
Your  violin  will  yet  speak  in  all  countries.  But 
now,  attention!  You  must  take  no  cold,  you 
must  run  no  risk.  A  relapse  now,  and  your 
chance  goes." 

51 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Sonnie  did  not  speak.  He  had  grown  very 
pale;  he  breathed  quickly.  He  turned  away, 
and  caught  up  Fifine  and  laid  his  face  against 
her  fur. 

"Care  and  attention,  my  young  friend,  care 
and  attention,"  said  Engel,  taking  off  his  spec- 
tacles. The  glasses  were  blurred,  his  own  lips 
were  unsteady.  "No  risk,  no  colds,"  he  added, 
and  hurried  away. 

The  sun  poured  into  the  room,  the  skies 
laughed  aloud.  The  gladness  of  the  valley 
surged  over  the  solemn  pines.  Sonnie  wondered 
if  the  place  had  ever  appeared  to  him  chill  and 
ghostly — a  valley  of  dead  men.  Of  dead  men? 
It  was  the  gate  of  life!  This  was  the  happy 
land  where  Death  was  vanquished. 

"Oh,  Life,  here  is  thy  victory!,  here  is  thy 
victory!"  he  sang.  The  words  remained  with 
him.  They  sang  in  his  brain,  they  tingled  in  his 
fingers.  He  took  up  his  violin,  and  the  bow 
swept  it  triumphantly. 

Triumph  was  in  the  music.  It  rang  out  clear 
and  resonant  among  the  notes  that  mounted  up 
and  up  until  they  circled  round  the  bared  fang 
of  the  Ducanalp. 

"OA,  Life,  here  is  thy  victory!  O  Life,  here  is 
thy  victory!" 

Major  Sanderson,  who  had  come  to  the  Mit- 
tenthal  too  late,  lifted  his  hand  and  feebly  beat 
time  to  the  music.  The  rhythm  held  the  joy  of 
52 


Sonnie 

life  exultant,  unconquerable.  He  heard  the 
quick  march  of  hope,  and  his  heart  stepped  to 
the  measure.  His  face  had  been  troubled,  but 
it  cleared  as  he  listened.  His  lips  moved.  "Oh, 
Grave,  where  is  thy  victory?" 

Sonnie  went  downstairs  to  the  public  balcony. 
The  invalids  were  already  in  their  chaises  tongues, 
a  line  of  recumbents  that  made  the  balcony 
look  like  the  section  of  a  hospital  ward.  There 
were  patches  of  colour  to  brighten  the  effect,  a 
gaudy  cushion,  the  Professor's  tartan.  Simpli- 
city Baldwin's  dress  was  a  flare  of  scarlet  in  the 
foreground.  There  was  colour  in  the  sunburnt 
faces  that  turned  smiling  to  welcome  Sonnie. 
They  seemed  to  him  to  wear  a  new  expression; 
there  was  no  cynicism  in  the  mask  of  gaiety. 
The  ring  in  the  voices  was  not  forced.  Every- 
body was  talking  at  once,  suggesting  expeditions, 
proposing  skating,  sleighing,  tobogganing.  The 
voices  buzzed  about  the  balcony  like  bees  in  the 
sun. 

Miss  Busybody  wandered  in  and  out  of  the 
hubbub,  her  red  cloak  challenging  Simplicity's 
dress.  She  was  not  in  spirits ;  her  mouth  drooped. 
When  she  saw  Sonnie  her  face  brightened.  She 
ran  to  him.  "Are  you  going  for  a  walk?  Please 
take  me  with  you." 

"Not  to-day,  sweetheart.  I'm  going  in  the 
post-wagon  to  Kleinbad. " 

"I  want  to  go  in  the  post- wagon,  too.  Please 
53 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

take  me.  I'm  velly  unhappy.  My  Uncle  Rob 
is  velly  ill,  and  Marie  can't  go  out,  and  there's 
nobody  to  play  with  me." 

Sonnie  thought  a  moment.  They  would  have 
to  walk  back;  but  Miss  Busybody  was  a  good 
walker,  and  could  easily  manage  the  three  miles, 
with  the  frequent  rests  that  he  would  be  obliged 
to  take. 

"Well,  run  and  ask  Marie  if  you  can  go." 

She  danced  away,  and  came  back  radiant. 
She  skipped  beside  Sonnie  on  their  way  to  meet 
the  post-sleigh.  They  were  both  in  spirits  to 
match  the  sun.  They  took  their  seats,  and  the 
post  jangled  along  the  road  and  across  the  bridge, 
under  which  the  moan  of  the  Grunwasser  was 
muffled.  The  valley  opened  out  white,  glittering 
where  the  rays  danced.  The  surface  of  the  snow 
was  broken  into  an  ice  forest  of  tiny  fronds  and 
flowering  crystals.  In  the  distance  the  Ducanalp 
gleamed  against  the  blue  background. 

Sonnie  saw  it  all  with  his  eager  eyes.  His 
face  was  sharp  with  the  keenness  of  his  gaze. 
He  was  looking  beyond  the  valley,  beyond  the 
white  gates  of  the  pass,  to  the  years  before  him. 
He  would  be  maestro:  he  was  going  to  realise 
his  dream  of  fame. 

"Oh,  Life,  here  is  thy  victory!" 

He  felt  young  again;  the  weight  of  the  years 
had  lifted.     Suddenly  he  broke  into  the  words 
of  a  poem  Philippa  Joy  was  fond  of  repeating: 
54 


Sonnie 

"Is  it  so  small  a  thing 

To  have  enjoyed  the  sun? 
To  have  lived  light  in  the  spring, 
To  have  loved,  to  have  thought,  to  have  done?" 

"What's  that?"  asked  Miss  Busybody. 

"That's  the  song  of  a  man  who  grasps  fame." 

"What's  fame?" 

"Fame? — oh,  fame — I  really  don't  know  how 
to  tell  you.  Fame  is  when  they  give  you  a  laurel 
wreath,  and  everybody  says  you  are  a  genius." 

"That's  nothing.  I  heard  Simplicity  say  it 
this  morning  when  you  were  playing.  'Sonnie  is 
a  genius,'  she  said;  'it's  drefful  to  think  he 
can't  live.'  And  Philippa  said,  'He  can't  die. 
People  who  play  like  that  can't  die.'  " 

There  were  tattered  lights  in  the  sky.  The 
clouds  were  stealthily  mustering.  Their  shadow 
crossed  Sonnie's  face. 

"They  talked  lots  about  you,"  Miss  Busybody 
went  on,  "but  I've  forgotten.  And  then  Miss 
Blake  cried,  and  said,  'Sonnie  can't  die;  he 
shows  us  how  to  live. '  And  the  Professor  con- 
kerdicted  her,  and  said,  'He  can't  live;  he 
shows  us  how  to  die.'  And  I  asked  them  what 
it  meant,  and  they  told  me  to  run  away.  Is  that 
being  a  genius,  Sonnie?  Is  that  fame?" 

Sonnie  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Perhaps;  only 
that  kind  has  no  laurels." 

"You  shall  have  laurels,  Sonnie.  I'll  ask  my 
Uncle  Rob  to  buy  you  one.  I  know  what  laurels 
55 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

is;  it's  a  wreath  on  a  coffin.  It  was  on  my 
daddy's,  because  he  was  a  brave  soldier.  He 
was  just  awfully  brave.  He  stood  up  in  the 
stirrups  and  waved  his  sword  to  the  regiment, 
and  called  out,  'Death  and  victory!'  and  then  he 
was  shotted.  My  Uncle  Rob  makes  me  stand  on 
the  table  and  shout  it.  He  shouts,  too,  'Death 
and  victory!'  Marie  says  it's  wunderschon. " 

The  clouds  drifted  away  from  Sonnie's  face. 
By  the  time  they  reached  Kleinbad  the  shadow 
had  passed. 

They  lunched  at  the  Kurhaus,  and  afterwards 
set  out  to  walk  back  to  Mittenplatz.  The  child 
chattered  along  the  road,  but  Sonnie  was  feeling 
tired.  They  rested  a  while  before  they  struck 
into  the  pine  wood.  He  shivered  as  he  entered 
the  shadow. 

"Night  has  come  awful  quick,"  said  Miss 
Busybody  presently. 

Sonnie  peered  through  the  tree-trunks.  It 
was  always  dusk  in  the  wood,  but  the  clouds 
must  have  gathered  to  make  the  shadows  so 
dense.  All  at  once  Miss  Busybody  exclaimed, 
"Look!  look!  the  angels  are  shaking  their 
wings." 

It  had  begun  to  snow.  Sonnie  thought  anx- 
iously of  the  long  walk  before  them ;  they  had 
only  gone  half  the  distance.  It  was  as  easy  to 
go  on  as  to  return  to  Kleinbad,  and  a  sleigh 
might  overtake  them.  He  hurried  the  pace,  his 
56 


Sonnie 

breathing  quickening.  Miss  Busybody  trotted 
beside  him,  talking  gaily  of  the  angels  passing. 
They  came  from  the  shelter  of  the  pines  into  a 
whirling  tumult  of  snowflakes.  They  could  see 
nothing;  mountain  and  valley  were  hidden  in 
the  folds  of  the  storm. 

"I  wish  I  had  my  fur — it's  drefful  cold,"  said 
the  child.  Her  face  was  blue,  her  teeth  chat- 
tered. 

Sonnie  looked  uneasily  at  her.  They  were 
nearly  two  miles  from  home,  and  there  was  the 
valley  to  be  crossed.  He  was  cold,  too,  and 
tired,  but  they  must  push  on. 

"Courage,  sweetheart,"  he  said,  cheerfully; 
"we  shall  soon  be  at  home." 

He  exerted  himself  to  tell  her  stories,  but  they 
did  not  amuse  her.  Every  moment  she  inter- 
rupted him  with  complaints  of  the  cold.  Pres- 
ently she  began  to  cough.  What  was  to  be 
done?  He  could  only  help  her  by  giving  her  his 
jacket,  and  he  himself  was  chilly  enough  already. 
But  she  was  taking  cold,  and  he  had  heard  of 
children  dying  of  croup. 

He  hurried  her  along  the  road,  their  feet 
clogged  by  the  deepening  snow. 

Miss  Busybody  began  to  cry.    Sonnie  stopped. 

"What  is  it,  sweetheart?" 

"I'm  just  deaded  with  cold,"  she  sobbed,  "and 
my  foots  is  asleep.  Can't  I  get  under  your  over- 
coat?" 

57 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

The  boy  hesitated.  Engel's  voice  was  in  his 
ears:  "No  risk.  No  cold.  A  relapse  now,  and 
you  chance  goes." 

Miss  Busybody's  sobs  punctuated  the  sen- 
tences. Sonnie  set  his  mouth  hard,  drew  off  his 
overcoat,  and  slipped  out  of  his  jacket. 

"Here,  sweetheart,"  he  said;  "put  on  my 
jacket  under  your  cloak,  and  you'll  soon  be 
warm."  He  put  on  his  overcoat  again,  and  but- 
toned the  jacket  round  her. 

"Now  then,  Miss  Busybody,  hurry!"  he  said, 
cheerily. 

"Death  and  victory!"  he  cried,  and  they 
plunged  forward.  How  it  snowed!  The  heav- 
ens had  fallen  to  earth,  and  the  shattered  skies 
were  full  of  tiny  stars.  They  sprinkled  his  coat 
and  clung  to  his  feet  as  he  walked.  He  could 
not  keep  up  the  pace.  His  breath  quickened; 
he  gasped  at  every  stab  of  the  cold. 

The  shroud  of  the  snow  wound  itself  round 
and  round  in  thicker  folds.  His  feet  grew  more 
and  more  heavy.  Miss  Busybody's  weight  on 
his  arm  was  dragging  him  down.  He  could  not 
talk  to  her;  he  needed  to  be  careful  of  those 
quick  breaths. 

"I  can't  truly  walk  no  furder,  Sonnie;  please 
carry  me." 

"I  can't,  poor  little  sweetheart.  You're  too 
heavy." 

She  looked  reproachfully  at  him. 
58 


Sonnie 

"My  daddy  used  to  carry  me.  I'm  truly, 
truly  tired,  Sonnie." 

"I  know,  dear,  I  know.  Perhaps  a  sleigh  will 
come.  Be  brave  a  little  longer." 

They  went  on  a  few  yards;  then  the  child's 
pent-up  misery  burst  in  a  howl. 

"It's  no  use.  My  foots  is  dead.  I  can't  walk, 
Sonnie,  I  can't!"  She  sat  down  in  the  snow, 
and  sobbed  there. 

The  boy  looked  at  her,  then  at  the  road  up 
and  down.  He  could  only  see  a  few  feet  ahead. 
He  shouted.  The  spent  voice  lost  itself  in  the 
silence  of  the  snow.  The  storm  swept  round 
them  the  folds  of  the  shroud  thicker  and 
thicker.  There  was  no  light  from  chalet  or 
shed.  He  strained  his  ears  for  the  sound  of 
bells.  The  hush  of  the  grave  held  the  valley. 

They  could  not  stay  there  to  perish  in  the 
snow.  He  could  not  leave  the  child.  To  carry 
her  was  to  court  death.  It  was  hard  enough  for 
him  to  struggle  on  alone. 

"A  relapse  now,  and  your  chance  goes." 

"I  wish  my  daddy  was  here,"  Miss  Busybody 
sobbed. 

The  boy's  face  changed.  Her  daddy  was 
dead.  His  last  cry,  "Death  and  victory!"  still 
rang  in  his  ears. 

He  stooped  and  lifted  Miss  Busybody. 

"Hurrah!   Death  —  and   victory!"   he  panted 
as  he  stumbled  forward. 
59 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Her  arms  round  his  neck  made  breathing  still 
more  difficult.  Her  red  cloak  falling  round  him 
hindered  his  feet.  Gasping,  fighting,  blinded, 
breathless,  he  staggered  on. 

The  snow  was  lightening  round  them.  Where 
the  sleigh-lamps  pierced  it,  it  was  like  an  open 
gate.  Sonnie  did  not  see  the  light — his  head 
was  bent  forward;  his  strained  ,eyes  saw  only  the 
red  of  the  child's  cloak.  The  beating  of  his 
heart  battered  in  his  ears. 

The  lights  came  nearer.  The  bells  were 
muffled  by  the  snow.  The  horse  stepped  care- 
fully, shaking  the  red  plume  on  his  forehead. 
There  was  no  sound  of  hoofs. 

The  sleigh  was  almost  upon  them  before  Son- 
nie was  aware  of  it.  The  crack  of  Jakob  Mey- 
er's whip  startled  him  like  the  crack  of  doom. 
He  set  down  the  child,  and  stood  gasping,  unable 
to  answer  Dr.  Engel's  questions.  The  Doctor's 
sharp  voice  did  not  frighten  Miss  Busybody. 
She  knew  quite  well  who  Engel  was. 

"Sonnie  carried  me,"  she  said.  "I  was  almost 
deaded,  and  he  carried  me,  and  so  he's  out  of 
breath.  I  expect  he's  velly  cold,  too;  he  gave 
me  his  jacket  'cause  I  was  cold." 

Engel  started  as  she  spoke,  and  gave  the  child 
a  keen  look,  but  turned  to  Sonnie. 

"I'll   drive   you   home,"  he   said,  in  a  queer, 
dry  voice.     "Come."     He  helped  the  boy  into 
the  sleigh,  and  wrapped  him  in  his  bear-skin. 
60 


Sonnie 

•'So!  Lie  back.  Don't  speak.  I'll  look  after 
the  little  one." 

He  took  Miss  Busybody  on  his  knee,  gave  a 
quick  order  to  Jakob  Meyer. 

"Ja  wohl,"  said  Jakob,  turning  the  horse 
towards  Mittenplatz.  The  frown  settled  between 
Engel's  brows.  Had  the  boy  done  himself 
irreparable  mischief?  Who  was  the  child?  The 
peculiar  ringing  intonation  of  her  voice  had 
struck  familiarly  on  his  ears.  Except  for  the 
English  accent  it  might  have  been  Isolde  speak- 
ing. His  arm  tightened  round  the  child. 

"What  is  your  name,  little  one?" 

"Miss  Busybody." 

"No,  no.     What  does  mother  call  you?" 

"My  muvver  is  deaded. " 

"What,  then,  does  father  call  you?" 

"My  daddy's  deaded,  too.  He  was  a  brave 
soldier.  I'm  Uncle  Rob's  girl." 

"And  what  does  Uncle  Rob  call  you?" 

"Little  demon." 

"So!  Then,  poor  little  one,  thou  hast  no 
name  but  Miss  Busybody." 

"Ah,  but  I  have!"  she  said,  eagerly.  "It's  a 
booful  name,  and  it  was  my  muvver's.  It's 
velly  long  to  say.  Shall  I  say  it?"  She  looked 
up  confidingly  at  him,  her  soft  eyes  smiling. 

"Yes." 

"Isolde  Johanna  Stannard. " 


61 


CHAPTER   IV 

BABETTE 

Babette  was  shivering  in  her  little  room  on  the 
landing.  Outside  the  sun  lay  white  on  the  white 
snow.  Where  the  pines  climbed  the  hills  there 
was  a  splash  of  yellow  on  the  trunks  and  a 
tangle  of  saffron  light  among  the  branches.  The 
shadows  were  deep  on  the  mountain-side,  and 
the  December  cold  was  so  intense  you  could 
almost  see  it,  an  impalpable  blue  hanging  over 
the  snow. 

Even  in  the  Hotel  Royal  it  was  cold,  and 
Babette 's  teeth  chattered  while  she  cut  the  slips 
of  pinewood  with  which  she  made  the  bedroom 
fires.  She  cut  the  wood  so  that  the  curled  shav- 
ings came  at  marked  intervals  and  made  a  little 
white  tree,  like  the  ghost  of  the  pines  that  her 
father  felled  in  the  forest.  She  liked  to  see  the 
tree  grow  under  her  fingers,  and  to  watch  it 
aflame  afterwards  in  the  stove,  all  its  branches 
blazing.  It  was  a  prettier  death,  she  thought, 
than  came  to  the  blocks  of  wood  that  slowly 
smoked  themselves  out. 

Now  and  then  a  fit  of  coughing  seized  her, 
and  when  it  was  over  she  would  lift  her  eyes  to 
62 


Babette 

the  bell  indicator,  afraid  lest  she  had  not  heard 
the  bell  of  No.  10. 

In  No.  10  Sonnie  Baker  lay  ill  from  the  chill 
caught  in  the  snowstorm.  Babette  had  made 
several  errands  to  his  room  already,  to  see  if  he 
wanted  anything.  She  was  coughing  now  be- 
cause she  had  spent  the  previous  night  on  the 
floor  outside  his  door.  He  had  sent  his  nurse 
away  for  a  night's  rest,  and  Babette  could  not 
bear  to  leave  him  alone  when  any  moment  he 
might  need  help  and  not  have  strength  to  ring. 
So  she  had  spent  the  night  at  his  door,  listening 
to  every  movement  inside,  and  to-day  she  was 
coughing  more  than  ever.  She  was  tired  and 
cold,  but  she  did  not  think  of  that  as  she  sat  in 
her  fireless  closet  ready  to  answer  the  bells. 

There  came  the  shrill  peal — the  fiftieth  time 
that  morning.  She  laid  down  the  wood  and  got 
up,  setting  her  cap  straight  as  she  passed  the 
looking-glass.  Who  could  tell?  Perhaps  she 
would  meet  Karl,  the  porter,  on  the  stairs. 

Her  eyes  brightened ;  she  gave  a  second  look 
at  herself.  She  shivered  again  as  she  saw  her 
face;  it  was  livid  where  the  red  patches  did  not 
burn.  Her  eyes  were  sunken.  She  could  not 
bear  to  look.  She  went  out  quickly,  hoping  that 
Karl  would  not  meet  her.  She  was  thankful  that 
her  father  could  not  see  her.  Poor  old  man,  he 
was  so  delighted  that  his  girl  was  in  the  Mitten- 
thai,  where  sickness  was  cured  and  where  weak 
63 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

lungs  grew  strong.  He  did  not  know  that 
health  only  came  back  to  those  who  had  leisure 
and  comfort  and  ease.  Babette  had  to  work 
day  and  night,  waiting  on  invalids,  some  of 
whom  were  not  as  ill  as  herself. 

She  was  so  bright  always  that  only  Sonnie 
Baker  had  noticed  her  quick  breathing  and  her 
tired  face.  Even  Karl  did  not  suspect  that  any- 
thing was  wrong,  for  she  laughed  through  the 
half-hour  that  Frau  Bullen  occasionally  gave  the 
lovers. 

Her  face  was  one  of  the  brightest  in  the  hotel, 
though  her  feet  were  constantly  weary  in  run- 
ning errands,  sometimes  for  those  who  only  came 
to  the  Mittenthal  for  amusement.  She  thought 
it  such  a  beautiful  thing  to  be  strong  that  it 
delighted  her  to  wait  on  people  who  were  not 
sick  like  herself.  She  looked  on  ungrudgingly 
at  those  who  walked  with  Life,  and  her  hand  did 
not  struggle  in  the  chill  grasp  that  held  it.  She 
knew  she  was  getting  worse,  that  the  hard  life 
was  becoming  too  hard  for  her,  but  she  never 
told  any  one.  She  had  accepted  her  fate.  She 
was  too  poor  to  afford  the  luxury  of  life.  It  was 
one  among  the  things  she  must  do  without.  It 
had  been  something  that  she  had  been  able  to 
come  to  Mittenplatz,  to  give  herself  the  benefit 
of  the  wonderful  climate,  and  to  spend  a  whole 
winter  in  the  same  hotel  with  Karl. 

She  loved  the  valley,  with  its  still  air,  its  sun, 
64 


Babette 

its  snow.  It  was  a  beautiful  place,  where  people 
were  cured.  Sometimes  Babette  felt  as  if  the 
stillness  was  caused  by  great  white  wings  spread 
over  the  valley,  and  she  would  dream  of  a  great 
angel  poised  in  the  air.  She  never  saw  the 
shadow  of  the  wings.  To  her  the  angel  who 
hovered  over  the  valley  was  always  the  Angel  of 
Life.  It  was  the  smiling  Angel  of  Death  who 
walked  in  the  valley.  And  she  loved  the  people 
who  lay  on  the  balconies  with  bright  faces,  wait- 
ing; and  their  friends  who  waited  on  them  with 
bright  faces,  though  their  hearts  were  wrung. 
She  was  only  a  simple  peasant,  but  she  under- 
stood the  pathos  and  the  tragedy  round  her. 
She  could  not  have  put  it  into  words,  but  she 
felt  the  atmosphere  charged  with  great  emotions, 
and  she  had  seen  the  terrible  beauty  of  Life  and 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  Death.  She  loved  the 
angel  with  the  gentle  touch  and  the  silent  feet 
and  the  smiling  face.  His  footfall  was  as  silent 
as  that  of  the  snow;  and  the  peace  and  cold  of 
the  snow  were  his,  also.  The  day  was  his,  and 
the  night,  and  his  hand  rested  lightly  on  the 
children  of  men.  Babette  had  seen  his  face 
many  times  that  winter.  She  was  glad  that  she 
had  come  to  the  valley  where  men  learned  to  see 
Death  and  not  to  fear  him. 

She  climbed  the  stairs  to  answer  the  bell.     It 
was  the  Fraulein  Joy  who  had  rung,  and  she  was 
one  of  those  who  considered  Babette,  and  never 
65 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

rung  unnecessarily.  To-day  Philippa  had  made 
a  cup  of  beef-tea  for  Babette.  She  had  noticed 
that  the  girl  was  looking  pale,  and  she  knew 
that  Babette  had  more  to  do  now  that  Sonnie 
Baker  was  confined  to  bed. 

"Sit  down,  Babette,  and  drink  this;  then  I 
will  ask  you  to  take  that  parcel  to  No.  10. " 

There  were  a  good  many  parcels  on  the  table. 
Babette  remembered  that  it  was  the  day  before 
Christmas.  Philippa  had  a  small  bronze  figure 
in  her  hand.  She  was  looking  at  it  hesitatingly. 
Then  she  saw  that  Babette  was  gazing  at  the 
bronze. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  it,  Babette?"  she  asked, 
rousing  herself  from  her  thoughts.  "See,  it  is  a 
beautiful  St.  John,  by  a  great  artist." 

Babette  looked  at  it  with  a  curiously  eager 
face. 

"It's  wunderschon, "  she  said.  "But  it  is  not 
very  like — does  the  Fraulein  know  that  in  Mit- 
tenplatz  the  Herr  Doctor  is  called  'der  Heilige 
Johann"? 

"Dr.  Engel?  No;  I  didn't  know."  Philip- 
pa's  voice  was  interested.  "Why  is  he  called 
so?" 

"It  is  his  good  heart,  and  the  life  so  holy.  He 
lives  but  to  do  good,  and  the  poor  worship  him." 

"He  always  seems  so — silent."  Philippa  hesi- 
tated for  the  word. 

"But  his  heart  speaks."     Babette  smiled. 
66 


Babette 

Philippa  turned  her  face  a  little  aside.  Her 
eyes  were  not  so  frank  as  usual. 

"It  is  a  present  for  the  Doctor,"  she  said  in 
an  embarrassed  manner.  "He  has  been  so  kind, 
and  it  is  Noel — and  his  name  is  John..  In  Eng- 
land we  give  our  friends  presents  at  Christmas," 
she  added,  with  unnecessary  emphasis. 

"But  yes;  and  here  also,"  said  Babette, 
smiling.  She  would  not  have  thought  it  un- 
natural if  the  Fraulein  Joy  had  wished  to  give 
fifty  presents  to  Dr.  Engel.  "And  shall  I  ask 
of  Karl  to  take  the  Fraulein 's  gift  to  the  Herr 
Doctor?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Philippa,  hastily.  "You  are 
always  ready  to  call  Karl,  I  notice,  Babette. 
And  I  don't  care  to  tell  everybody  to  whom  I  am 
sending  presents.  I  tell  you,  because  you  like 
the  Doctor,  and  you  know  how  good  he  has  been." 

"He  has  saved  the  Fraulein's  life,"  said 
Babette.  "And  now  he  will  have  the  marvelous 
joy  of  the  Fraulein's  gift." 

Philippa  coloured,  and  put  the  bronze  figure 
on  the  table.  "He  may  not  care  for  it,"  she 
said,  with  great  unconcern.  "Have  you  finished 
your  beef-tea,  Babette?  You  must  come  again 
to-morrow  for  another  cup.  You  are  looking 
very  ill;  you  should  rest." 

Babette  smiled  as  she  shook  her  head. 

"When  you  are  rich,  you  rest;  when  you  are 
poor,  you  work." 

67 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"That  seems  to  be  the  rule,"  Philippa  said 
sadly;  "and  it  is  so  hard.     I  suppose  you  are 
very  poor,  Babette?" 

Babette  flushed  all  over  her  white  face. 

"Ach  no!"  she  laughed,  joyfully.  "I  have  the 
little  father,  and  I  have  Karl." 

Philippa's  face  changed,  and  her  voice 
changed,  too.  "You  are  richer  than  I  am, 
Babette." 

Her  thin,  white  hand  pressed  the  table  till  the 
knuckles  reddened.  "Lover  and  friend  hast 
thou  put  far  from  me,"  she  was  thinking. 

Babette  looked  at  her  pale  face,  paler  for  the 
black  frock,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  ready  sym- 
pathy. 

"Poor  little  one!"  she  whispered.  She  tried 
to  say  more,  but  the  words  would  not  come. 
She  shook  her  head,  and  escaped  from  the  room. 

Philippa  sat  down  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
the  bronze  on  the  table.  She  was  not  crying; 
all  her  tears  had  been  buried  in  the  grave  in  the 
friedhof,  but  the  look  in  her  eyes  was  sadder 
than  tears. 

"Lover  and  friend,  lover  and  friend,"  she 
whispered  over  and  over  again.  And  yet  he 
had  been  good  to  her — so  good  to  her.  What 
had  she  said  or  done  that  his  manner  should 
have  changed  so?  He  was  brusque  and  harsh 
now;  his  kindness  touched  her  through  a  glove 
of  steel.  But  though  he  was  cool  and  stern,  he 
68 


Babette 

was  the  one  person  she  trusted — and  since  her 
father's  death,  the  one  person  on  whom  she  could 
lean.  "The  good  Doctor. "  "His  heart  speaks. " 
What  did  it  matter  if  he  was  no  longer  her 
friend?  She  would  never  forget  that  time  when 
his  friendship  had  been  the  only  thing  that 
bound  her  to  life.  She  had  thought  then  that 
his  tenderness  had  meant  more  than  friendship, 
more  even  than  pity.  But  lately,  since  she  had 
grown  stronger,  his  attitude  had  been  different. 
His  visits  had  been  coldly  professional.  He  no 
longer  came  into  the  room  smiling,  his  pockets 
bulging  with  the  books  he  had  brought  to  amuse 
her.  He  no  longer  stayed,  talking  about  the 
books,  when  his  medical  visit  was  over.  Of 
course  his  time  was  largely  given  to  Sonnie 
Baker,  who  had  been  ill  ever  since  his  walk  from 
Kleinbad.  But  that  scarcely  accounted  for  his 
changed  manner.  "If  he  were  like  other  men, 
I  would  say  he  was  fickle,"  Philippa  thought. 
"But  he  is  not  like  other  men.  His  heart  speaks, 
and  the  poor  worship  him.  And  they  call  him 
St.  John  in  the  valley. "  She  smiled,  a  tender 
pride  in  the  smile.  "He  is  a  saint — his  lonely, 
unselfish  life  is  finer  than  the  life  any  saint  ever 
lived.  And  he  stays  here  in  the  wilderness — " 

She  broke  off  her  thoughts  to  pack  the  St. 

John  into  its  case.     Then  she  put  it  among  the 

other  presents.     She  would  not  send  it  by  Karl, 

but  give  it  herself  to  Dr.  Engel  when  he  came 

69 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

to  see  her  that  day.  She  had  taken  cold,  and  he 
had  ordered  her  to  stay  in  her  rooms  for  the 
present. 

Philippa  was  glad  to  escape  the  preparations 
for  Christmas.  She  had  no  heart  for  the  festivi- 
ties downstairs. 

The  hotel  was  full  of  visitors,  come  for  the 
skating,  or  to  spend  Christmas  with  their  friends 
who  were  ill.  Their  voices  banished  the  silence 
in  the  corridors,  their  laughing  drove  away  the 
ghosts.  The  piano  banging  all  day  to  the  spin 
of  galops  and  waltzes  was  a  gayer  sound  than 
Sonnie's  violin.  The  rush  up  and  down  the 
stairs  silenced  the  creak  of  the  lift.  You  missed 
the  patient,  smiling  faces  of  the  winter  in  the  tide 
of  light-faced,  light-footed  people  who  surged 
over  the  halls  and  passages.  There  was  nothing 
of  the  health-resort  left  in  the  hotel.  Christmas 
had  taken  possession. 

Frau  Bullen  was  in  the  pantry  recklessly  order- 
ing dainties  for  dinner  and  for  the  supper  after- 
wards. Beef-tea  and  milk-pudding  had  had  their 
day;  they  ceased  to  be — for  the  present.  The 
balcony  was  empty  of  its  chaises  tongues.  The 
invalids  were  in  the  salon,  making  garlands  for 
the  walls,  trimming  the  Christmas  fir.  The  tree 
was  almost  dressed.  Miss  Busybody  stood  fas- 
cinated by  its  glitter  of  tinsel,  its  globes  of 
coloured  glass  and  candles.  On  the  topmost 
bough  stood  a  plaster  figure  of  the  Christ-child. 
70 


Babette 

There  were  some  smaller  trees  standing  near. 
These  were  for  the  invalids  who  had  to  stay  in 
their  rooms.  Miss  Busybody  had  already  hung 
her  presents  for  Sonnie  and  Fifine  on  the  one 
that  was  going  to  No.  10.  She  did  not  think  it 
was  such  a  pretty  tree  as  the  one  Frau  Bullen  was 
sending  to  Philippa.  Babette  stood  beside  the 
child  admiring  the  trees.  She  knew  that  when 
night  came  Frau  Bullen  would  bid  her  carry 
them  to  the  different  rooms,  with  her  "Gruss" 
and  ' '  Gliickwiinsch. ' '  That  would  please  Babette 
very  much;  but  she  wished  there  had  been  a 
Christ-child  on  the  Fraulein's  tree.  She  could 
not  forget  the  black-robed  figure  and  the  face  of 
Philippa  that  morning.  It  made  her  heart 
heavy,  it  weighted  her  feet  more  than  the  weari- 
ness that  grew  harder  to  resist  as  the  day  went 
on.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down  the  intermi- 
nable steps  Babette  went,  on  the  errands  of  the 
people  who  were  too  busy  with  their  amusements 
to  spare  the  servants;  and  her  face  grew  greyer 
and  her  breathing  more  painful  with  every 
errand.  Sometimes  she  stopped,  gasping,  on 
the  landing,  and  then  hurried  on  to  avoid  the 
eyes  of  the  merry  people  passing  up  in  the  lift. 
But  she  did  not  pity  herself;  all  her  pity  was  for 
Philippa. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  the  cold  stabbed 
keen  and  fierce  over  the  valley;  but  she  did  not 
feel  it.  She  had  forgotten  the  weary  stairs,  the 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

pain  in  her  side.  She  could  only  remember  the 
face  of  the  girl  who  had  lost  her  father. 

"If  there  had  been  the  Christ-child  on  the 
tree,  it  would  surely  have  brought  comfort,"  she 
thought.  And  the  more  she  thought  of  it 
the  more  certain  she  was  that  the  Christ-child 
would  have  brought  comfort  to  the  little  Fraulein. 
Ach,  if  she  could  but  afford  to  buy  a  Christ-child 
for  the  Fraulein.  At  last  she  took  her  purse, 
and  counted  up  the  money  put  by  week  by  week 
for  her  father. 

"I  will  spare  two  francs,"  she  said.  "The 
Fraulein  is  poorer  than  me.  The  Christ-child 
will  comfort  the  broken  heart." 

She  could  not  go  to  the  shops  herself,  but  Karl 
would  buy  the  Christ-child  for  her  when  he  went 
to  the  post.  Her  cheeks  burned,  her  eyes 
glowed,  as  she  waited  for  Karl  to  come  back. 
Every  now  and  then  she  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  down  the  road  for  him. 

There  he  was  at  last,  the  slow  one!  And  he 
carried  a  little  parcel  carefully.  Babette 
clasped  her  hands:  "Ach,  du  herrliches  Christ- 
kind!"  She  waited  on  the  landing  for  Karl,  and 
he  came  running  up. 

"Ach,  liebchen,  there  is  no  a  Christ-child 
more  in  the  shops.  But  I  have  bought  thee  an 
equally  beautiful  image.  The  Fraulein  will  be 
greatly  comforted  when  thou  givest  him." 


Babette 

Babette's  face  fell.  "Thou  hast  not  brought 
the  Christ-child?" 

"Nein,  nein;  but  one  as  beautiful.  Only 
look,  liebchen!" 

He  unrolled  the  paper,  and  with  a  flourish 
displayed  a  bust  of  Bismarck. 

"Thou  dost  not  like  it?"  he  exclaimed,  star- 
ing at  Babette.  "But  it  is  wunderschon.  The 
Fraulein  will  marvel  at  it." 

"I  marvel  at  thee!"  Babette  said,  half  crying 
with  disappointment.  "Oh,  thou  great  dummr 
kopf!  The  Christ-child — and  thou  bringest 
Bismarck!" 

"They  had  only  angels,"  said  Karl,  crest- 
fallen. 

"Then  must  thou  bring  an  angel,"  said 
Babette,  severely.  "What  comfort  is  there  in 
Bismarck?" 

Karl  could  not  go  out  again  till  after  dinner, 
and  he  was  only  just  in  time  with  the  angel. 
Babette  had  already  toiled  up  the  stairs  several 
times,  carrying  trees  to  different  rooms.  The 
pots  were  heavy.  She  could  scarcely  breathe  for 
the  pain  in  her  side.  If  she  could  only  go  up  in 
the  lift.  But  the  lift  was  for  the  visitors,  not 
for  the  servants  who  carried  burdens. 

She  left  Philippa's  tree  till  the  last.     Then  she 
went  up  with  it  to  the  top  landing,  where  Karl 
was  waiting,    looking    sheepishly   at  the   little 
plaster  angel  he  had  bought. 
73 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Oh,  thou  good  Karl!  Ach!  but  it  is  wun- 
derschon, "  Babette  gasped.  She  kissed  him 
suddenly.  "Thou  art  not  a  dummkopf. " 

Karl  looked  gratified.  "I  have  then  chosen 
well.  Hast  thou  praise  for  me?" 

Babette  turned  her  bright  face  to  him.  He 
thought  she  panted  from  the  weight  of  the  tree. 
They  fastened  the  angel  to  the  topmost  bough 
and  lighted  the  candles  together,  their  hands 
touching  many  times,  and  then  Karl  carried  it  to 
the  door  of  Philippa's  room.  Here  Babette  took 
it,  and  bore  it,  all  glory  and  glitter,  into  the 
room  where  Philippa  sat  alone  in  the  firelight, 
waiting  for  Dr.  Engel's  visit.  She  started  up, 
exclaiming;  and  Babette  stood  breathless  and 
smiling  till  a  bell  called  her  from  the  sight  of 
Philippa's  pleasure.  She  had  to  run  downstairs 
and  up  again,  and  this  time  the  pain  was  like  a 
sword  in  her  side. 

Dr.  Engel,  going  up  to  Philippa,  saw  Babette 
clinging  to  the  balustrade.  He  was  only  just  in 
time  to  catch  her  as  she  fell. 

Left  alone,  Philippa  gazed  sorrowfully  at  the 
tree.  The  room  was  gaudy  with  colour  and 
light,  but  there  could  be  no  fest  for  her.  Out- 
side the  snow  lay  heaped,  grey  in  the  sunless 
night,  and  greyer  and  colder  still  it  lay  heaped 
on  her  father's  grave  in  \hzfriedhof. 

One  by  one  the  candles  on  the  Christmas  fir 
74 


Babette 

burnt  low  and  burnt  out,  and  the  world  outside 
came  into  the  room,  cold  and  grey  and  sad. 
The  tree  without  its  lights  seemed  to  be  dead, 
but  on  the  topmost  bough  there  was  a  glimmer 
where  the  blaze  of  the  logs  touched  the  angel. 
In  the  glare  of  the  candles  she  had  not  noticed 
it,  but  now  she  saw  it,  and  the  pain  in  her  eyes 
deepened. 

"I  suppose  it  is  meant  for  the  Angel  of  Life," 
she  said.  "How  ironical  it  is  to  send  it  to  me 
when  I  have  nothing  to  live  for." 

Just  then  the  bells  crashed  out  from  the 
church,  and  she  smiled  a  dreary  smile.  "That 
is  ironical,  too — to  ring  out  peace  and  good  will 
to  so  many  poor  souls  to  whom  peace  only  means 
death.  And  what  good  will  does  Christmas  bring 
to  Babette,  for  instance?  Only  extra  work, 
until  she  is  ready  to  drop  in  carrying  other  peo- 
ple's presents.  No  one  gives  her  anything — not 
even  an  angel  with  an  ironical  message  of  life. 
And  she  has  something  to  live  for — her  father 
and  Karl.  Poor  Babette,  who  is  too  poor  to 
rest!" 

Philippa's  thoughts  moved  from  her  own 
misery  to  Babette's  hard  lot.  It  was  terrible 
that  she  should  have  to  work  because  she  was  too 
poor  to  rest.  "She  is  much  more  ill  than  I 
am,"  she  said  to  herself;  "but  no  one  gives 
her  a  chance  to  get  well."  Suddenly  she  started 
up.  Babette  should  have  a  chance.  She  should 
75 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

have  every  chance  that  money  and  care  could 
give  her. 

Philippa  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  a 
fever  of  enthusiasm,  developing  her  scheme. 
She  was  rich ;  she  could  afford  anything  that  was 
needed  to  make  Babette  well.  The  bells  pealed 
out  with  a  triumphant  note,  "Peace  and  good 
will  to  Babette!" 

Philippa  lifted  her  arms  to  the  angel  on  the 
bough  and  laughed  aloud.  "Ah,  little  angel, 
you  have  brought  a  message  of  life  to  Babette." 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  in  a  white 
wrapper,  the  long  sleeves  fallen  back  from  her 
arms  giving  a  suggestion  of  wings.  The  light 
was  dim  round  her,  and  the  Doctor,  arrested  in 
the  doorway,  peered  short-sightedly  into  the 
dusk.  She  might  have  been  a  spirit. 

A  tender,  pleased  look  came  into  his  eyes  and 
softened  them.  He  stood  gazing  at  the  girl. 
Then  her  arms  dropped,  and  he  saw  only  the 
woman  against  whom  he  had  steeled  his  heart. 

"They  are  all  heartless,"  he  thought.  "Here 
she  dances  gaily  while  Babette  dies  at  her 
door." 

He  gave  another  louder  knock  and  went  for- 
ward. "May  I  come  in?"  Philippa  sprang  to 
meet  him.  She  caught  his  hand  and  drew  him 
forward.  In  the  firelight  he  saw  her  face  radi- 
ant. He  lifted  his  brows  at  the  warmth  of  his 
welcome,  but  his  mood  melted  in  spite  of  him- 
76 


Babette 

self.  With  an  embarrassed  surprise  he  allowed 
her  to  lead  him  into  the  room.  She  was  always 
surprising  him,  always  appearing  in  a  new,  unex- 
pected character.  But  he  had  just  left  Babette, 
and  he  hardened  his  heart  again. 

"I  will  not  stop,"  he  said.  "You  are  better, 
and  I  am  busy." 

"I  am  perfectly  well,"  she  said,  impatiently. 
"But  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  It  is  very  impor- 
tant. Something  must  be  done  at  once  for 
Babette,  and  you  must  advise  me." 

Philippa  had  forgotten  Engel's  coldness.  Her 
manner  was  as  unconstrained  as  it  had  been 
before  her  father's  death.  Engel  sat  down, 
crushing  his  soft  hat  in  his  hands  with  the  same 
nervous  force  with  which  he  was  trying  to  crush 
the  tenderness  he  felt  for  her.  He  kept  his  eyes 
downcast  while  she  explained  her  scheme  for 
Babette.  Though  he  was  iron  to  her  uncon- 
scious appeals,  he  was  triumphant  because  she 
had  proved  herself  less  callous  and  self-engrossed 
than  the  majority  of  the  women  whom  he 
attended. 

"You  see  what  I  mean,"  Philippa  said, 
eagerly.  "To  the  people  in  the  hotel  she  will 
be  my  private  maid.  In  reality  she  shall  be  my 
guest.  She  shall  have  the  room  next  mine;  I 
will  give  her  every  comfort,  and  I  will  nurse  her 
myself." 

Engel  got  up  slowly  and  wearily  from  his  chair. 
77 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"I  wish  you  had  thought  of  this  before.  It  is 
too  late  now;  Babette  is  dying." 

The  life  failed  from  Philippa's  face. 

"Dying?"  she  cried,  in  a  hushed  voice. 
"Babette?  Surely  not!  She  was  here  an  hour 
ago.  Dying?" 

"I  fear  so,"  he  said,  sadly.  "She  has  broken 
a  blood-vessel.  Now  I  will  go.  I  must  move 
her  to  another  room." 

Philippa  sprang  towards  him. 

"Bring  her  to  mine.  You  must — for  to-night 
at  least.  Oh,  I  am  so  grieved!  Bring  her  at 
once." 

Engel  walked  directly  to  the  closet  on  the  land- 
ing where  one  of  the  maids  was  tending  Babette. 

He  carried  her  into  Philippa's  room  and  laid 
her  on  the  bed.  Then  he  turned  to  Philippa, 
who  stood  with  sorrowful  eyes  on  the  girl. 

"I  must-- stay  with  her  for  an  hour  or  two. 
You  will  sit  in  that  chair;  I  will  call  you  if  I 
want  anything." 

Philippa  could  not  speak.  She  was  struggling 
with  the  faintness  that  threatened  to  overcome 
her.  She  walked  to  the  bed  and  helped  Rosa  to 
unloose  Babette's  clothes  and  to  make  her  ready 
for  the  night.  Then,  without  a  word  to  Engel, 
she  went  to  the  chair  and  lay  back  in  the 
shadow.  She  did  not  want  him  to  see  that  she 
was  faint,  and  she  did  not  want  him  to  send  her 
from  the  room. 

78 


Babette 

After  a  time  the  faintness  passed.  She  lay 
listening  to  Engel's  voice  speaking  very  kindly 
to  Babette.  How  gentle  he  was!  Had  she  ever 
thought  this  man  hard?  And  yet,  and  yet  he 
was  hard  to  her.  Well,  it  could  not  be  his  fault; 
she  must  have  given  some  reason  for  his  changed 
conduct.  No  friend  could  have  been  more  to 
her  than  he  had  been  at  first.  The  murmur  of 
his  voice  mixed  drowsily  with  her  thoughts,  and 
grew  fainter  and  fainter.  She  thought  she  heard 
chimes. 

She  woke  shivering.  The  room  was  very  cold 
and  dark,  except  where  the  night-light  made  a 
circle  of  radiance.  There  was  no  fire;  a  slip  of 
white  showed  the  snow  against  the  open  window. 
Philippa  stared  vaguely.  Where  was  she?  She 
put  up  her  hands  and  felt  the  heavy  coat  tucked 
round  her.  Whose  coat  was  it? 

She  sat  up  straight  and  peered  into  the  dark- 
ness. A  sound  of  soft  breathing  came  from  the 
bed.  The  light  cast  a  gigantic  halo  on  the  wall, 
and  in  the  midst  of  it  was  the  shadow  of  a  head. 
Engel  quietly  crossed  to  Philippa's  side. 

"Don't  move,"  he  whispered.     "She  sleeps." 

"What  time  is  it?"  Philippa  asked. 

"Nearly  six." 

The  girl  sat  up,  rubbing  her  eyes.  "Have  I 
been  asleep  all  night?  and  kept  you  here?" 

"Babette  kept  me,"  he  answered. 

Philippa  looked  remorsefully  at  him.  "How 
79 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

could  I  have  slept  so  long?  Oh,  why  didn't 
you  wake  me?  And  this  is  your  coat?  Oh,  you 
shouldn't  have  done  it!  You  gave  it  to  me,  and 
you  have  been  sitting  without  an  overcoat  all 
night!  No  fire,  and  the  window  open!  I  can 
never  forgive  myself!" 

"Babette  needed  the  cold  air,"  he  said.  "It 
is  nothing.  I  am  yet  warm." 

"Let  me  feel  your  hands."  She  took  his 
hands  in  hers.  They  were  like  ice.  "Oh,  I 
shall  never  forgive  myself!"  she  cried,  passion- 
ately. She  felt  the  sudden  rigidness  that  tight- 
ened his  muscles,  and  she  got  up  and  went  into 
her  sitting-room.  Here  the  electric  light  was 
turned  on.  There  was  a  fire,  and  a  kettle  sing- 
ing on  the  stove.  Philippa  made  tea,  and  heaped 
the  fire  with  logs.  Then  she  called  Engel  from 
the  bedroom.  He  came  to  her,  a  new  shyness 
under  his  gravity,  and  drank  the  tea,  talking  all 
the  time  of  Babette.  There  was  no  conscious- 
ness in  Philippa's  eyes.  They  met  his  frankly. 
She  had  many  questions  to  ask  about  Babette. 
It  was  he  who  was  embarrassed.  And  yet  he 
lingered  beside  the  fire,  warming  himself,  his 
heart  melting  towards  the  girl  whose  remorseful 
tenderness  could  not  do  enough  for  him.  It  was 
pleasant  to  sit  there  with  her,  to  listen  to  her. 
His  hands  burnt  still  where  her  hands  had 
touched  them. 

"I  must  go."  His  height  overtopped  her 
80 


Babette 

small  figure.  His  eyes  bent  down  very  pleas- 
antly on  her.  "I  begin  my  rounds  soon  after 
six." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "And 
though  it  is  Christmas  Day,  you  take  no  holiday. 
Ah!  I  remember!  But  you  are  to  have  a  Christ- 
mas gift — " 

"I — I,  too,  would  ask  for  a  Christmas  gift," 
he  stammered.  What  was  he  going  to  say?  He 
hardly  knew.  He  felt  her  touch  on  his  hand. 
He  knew  he  loved  her.  He  had  sat  all  night 
gazing  at  her,  thinking. 

"Wait!  wait!"  Philippa  laughed  joyfully.  "It 
is  here,  all  ready  for  you.  I  think  you  will  like 
it." 

She  ran  to  the  table  and  gave  him  the  case 
with  the  bronze,  and  stood  by  while  he  opened 
it.  Her  eyes  were  shining,  her  face  was  eager; 
she  had  felt  Engel's  altered  manner,  and  her 
heart  had  leaped  to  meet  it. 

He  paused  in  opening  the  case,  and  gave  her 
a  look,  shy  and  full  of  meaning.  "But  I  want — 
two  gifts,"  he  smiled. 

Philippa's  lips  puckered  up  into  protest. 
"Two?"  she  cried,  gaily.  Engel  did  not  answer. 
He  had  unrolled  the  bronze,  and  was  gazing  at 
it  with  changed  face. 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  Philippa  said.  "I  sent 
for  it  from  Florence  for  you.  It  is  Donatello's 
'St.  John.'  " 

81 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Yes,  I  know.  You  are  very  kind."  His 
voice  was  constrained;  his  face  was  again 
reserved.  All  the  meaning  had  passed  from  his 
manner,  all  the  happiness  from  his  eyes.  The 
bronze  had  raked  up  the  past  again.  It  was  a 
replica  of  one  he  had  bought  for  Isolde  in  Flor- 
ence ten  years  ago. 

Philippa  stood  transfixed  where  he  had  left 
her.  Her  face  had  changed,  too.  What  could 
there  have  been  in  a  simple  Christmas  present  to 
vex  him  so?  she  wondered,  miserably. 

Karl  sprang  up  from  his  place  on  the  landing 
where  he  had  crouched  all  night,  in  sight  of  the 
room  where  Babette  lay.  The  light  on  the 
landing  was  still  burning. 

"Is  she  then  dead— the  little  one?" 

"She  is  dead  to  me,"  said  Engel. 

Karl  fell  back.     "Babette!"  he  cried. 

The  pain  in  his  voice  pierced  through  Engel's 
thoughts.  He  caught  the  poor  fellow  by  the 
hand. 

"Nein!  nein!  She  lives  —  Babette.  The 
danger  passes.  She  will  recover." 

"Gott  sei  dank!"  Karl  gasped.  "And  you  — 
ach  lieber,  Herr  Doktor,  and  the  good  Fraulein 
Joy,  who  has  been  so  kind — " 

Engel  walked  on.  At  the  end  of  the  passage 
a  door  opened  and  Miss  Busybody,  in  her  little 
dressing-gown,  appeared.  At  the  sight  of  the 
82 


Babette 

Doctor  she  ran  and  put  her  arms  round  his  legs. 
"I'm  looking  for  the  Christ-kind,"  she  whis- 
pered, loudly.  "Marie  says  he  is  walking  round 
to-night.  Have  you  seed  him?" 

Engel  lifted  the  child  and  kissed  her.  He 
kept  her  in  his  arms  a  long  time.  Miss  Busy- 
body struggled  down  at  last. 

"Let  me  feel  in  your  pockets  if  you've  got 
somefing  for  me."  The  Doctor  opened  his 
overcoat,  and  the  child  fumbled  in  an  inner 
pocket.  At  last  she  found  the  doll  he  had 
brought  for  her  the  night  before.  Her  face 
broke  into  wonderful  smiles.  She  looked  up 
beaming. 

"I  love  you  velly  much,"  she  said,  earnestly. 
"You're  nearly  as  nice  as  Philippa;  and  my 
Uncle  Rob  says  she  is  the  Joy  of  the  Mitten- 
thai." 


CHAPTER   V 

MERRIDEW 

"Merridew  is  a  fool,"  growled  the  Professor. 
"Why  can't  he  be  content  with  his  own  natural 
folly?" 

"We  never  know  when  we  are  well  off,"  said 
Simplicity. 

The  Professor  looked  impatiently  to  the  other 
end  of  the  table,  where  Merridew's  was  the  only 
grave  face.  Everybody  was  laughing.  The 
people  at  the  Professor's  end  of  the  table,  who 
could  not  tell  what  it  was  all  about,  shrugged 
their  shoulders. 

"It  is  only  Mr.  Merridew  again,"  Philippa 
said  to  Miss  Blake. 

"The  man  is  a  fool,"  the  Professor  repeated, 
and  went  on  with  his  soup. 

"I  know  what  a  fool  is,  Professor,"  Miss 
Busybody  said.  Major  Sanderson  glanced  at 
the  child,  then  smiled  across  at  Philippa.  He 
was  very  proud  of  his  niece. 

"Tell  us  what  a  fool  is,  you  little  pitcher!"  he 
said. 

Miss  Busybody  tilted  her  head  and  looked  shy. 

"A  fool  is  a  person  that  makes  you  laugh, 
84 


Merridew 

Uncle  Rob.  I  know.  I  saw  him  once  at  the 
circus.  He  had  on  a  cap  with  bells,  and  his  face 
was  red  and  white.  Is  Mr.  Merridew  a  fool 
because  he  has  got  red  spots  on  his  face?" 

"No,  no.  Go  on  with  your  lunch,  you  little 
demon,"  said  Major  Sanderson,  hastily.  "Poor 
Mr.  Merridew  Is  an  invalid." 

"I  don't  think  there  is  much  wrong  with  him," 
said  Miss  Blake,  in  her  depressed  voice.  "He 
is  a  little  hipped — " 

"Hipped!"  thundered  the  Professor.  "Where 
are  your  eyes,  ma'am?  Can  any  person  with 
sense  look  at  that  man  and  not  see  he  is  as  good 
as  dead?"  He  glared  at  Miss  Blake,  the  pale 
little  woman  beside  him.  She  had  prominent 
china-blue  eyes,  and  looked  like  a  Dutch  doll. 
Miss  Blake,  who  was  evidently  anxious  and  wor- 
ried, flushed  and  dropped  her  face  over  her 
plate.  Every  one  in  the  hotel  knew  that  she  and 
the  Professor  were  no  longer  friends,  and  that 
Miss  Blake  was  miserable  and  the  Professor 
surly.  But  no  one  knew  what  had  happened 
between  them.  Philippa  heard  Miss  Blake's 
fork  clatter  against  the  plate,  and  she  braved 
the  Professor's  temper. 

"I  think  Miss  Blake  is  quite  right,"  she  said, 
quietly.  "Mr.  Merridew  doesn't  look  like  an 
invalid.  How  bright  he  is!  The  hotel  would 
be  dull  enough  without  him." 

"Frau  Bullen  pays  him  to  keep  up  our  spirits," 
85 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

grunted  the  Professor.     "He  is  a  professional 
clown." 

"You  are  abominable,  Professor,"  said  Phil- 
ippa, hotly.  "Please  attack  some  one  else — " 

"I'll  attack  Engel,  if  you  like,"  he  growled. 
"Engel  is  a  fossil;  he  is  hard  enough  to  belong 
to  the  stone  age.  He — " 

Philippa  laughed  while  she  reddened.  "At 
any  rate,  Mr.  Merridew  is  the  kindest  man  here," 
she  said,  quickly. 

"I  wonder  if  any  one  is  going  to  toboggan 
to-night?"  Miss  Blake  put  in,  hurriedly.  "It  is 
full  moon.  I  would  like  to  go  out." 

"I  should  think  you  would  like  some  tobog- 
ganing, Professor.  You  said  it  improved  your 
temper,"  Philippa  said,  mischievously. 

"Ask  Merridew,"  growled  the  Professor. 
"I'm  busy." 

"Don't  trouble,"  said  Miss  Blake,  hastily;  "I 
don't  want  to — I — " 

Philippa  turned  to  Merridew,  who  was  passing 
her  chair  on  his  way  from  the  salle-a-manger. 
His  coat  hung  loose  from  his  shoulders,  his 
figure  was  stooping  and  thin.  His  face  was  thin, 
too,  and  the  colour  on  his  cheeks  made  his  eyes 
glitter. 

"Mr.  Merridew,  won't  you  toboggan  with  Miss 
Blake  to-night?"     She  caught  the  demur  on  his 
face,  and  added,  "It  is  so  dull  for  her  to  sit 
reading  to  the  Professor  every  night." 
86 


Merridew 

Miss  Blake  flushed  again,  and  her  eyes  filled. 
She  did  not  tell  Philippa  what  everybody  knew, 
that  for  the  last  two  evenings  the  Professor  and 
she  had  not  read  together.  Merridew  under- 
stood what  Philippa  meant,  and  answered  pleas- 
antly, in  his  grave  tones: 

"I  should  be  delighted.  It  is  just  the  weather 
for  tobogganing.  After  dinner,  then,  Miss 
Blake." 

"Mr.  Merridew,"  Miss  Busybody  piped,  "the 
Professor  says  you  are  a  fool." 

"Only  a  fool?"     Merridew  smiled. 

"Come  here,  Miss  Busybody.  You  have  not 
told  me  what  you  are  going  to  call  your  new 
doll,"  said  Philippa. 

The  child  ran  round  the  table  and  climbed  on 
to  Philippa's  knee.  "My  new  doll,  that  Dr. 
Engel  gave  me  for  Christmas?  Her  name  is 
Philippa.  Philippa  and  something  else,  only  it's 
too  hard  to  'member.  But  he  wrote  it  down,  and 
I've  got  the  paper." 

,  "Who  wrote  it  down?  What  paper?"  Philippa 
asked,  bending  till  her  brown  hair  mixed  with 
the  child's  fair  locks. 

"Dr.  Engel.  This  is  the  paper.  It  was  in  my 
dollie's  sash  when  I  took  her  out  of  his  pocket." 

Miss  Busybody  carefully  untied  her  handker- 
chief and  produced  a  scrap  of  paper.     "I  keep 
it   safe,    'cos   I   can't   'member  the  name,   and 
Marie  can't,"  she  explained. 
87 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Philippa  took  the  paper  and  read  the  two 
words  on  it,  "Philippa  Alcestis. "  She  recog- 
nized Engel's  writing,  and  stared.  What  did 
it  mean?  Who  was  Philippa  Alcestis? 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  a  little  frown 
showing  between  her  eyes.  "Who  was  Alcestis, 
Professor?" 

"Alkestis,  you  mean,"  said  the  Professor. 
"She  was  the  woman  whom  Hercules  brought 
back  from  the  dead." 

"No,  she  wasn't,"  said  Miss  Busybody, 
eagerly.  "She  was  Philippa,  I  know,  'cos  I 
asked  Dr.  — " 

Philippa  caught  up  the  child  and  ran  laughing 
out  of  the  room  with  her.  Miss  Blake  turned 
to  Merridew,  a  spark  of  interest  in  her  melan- 
choly eyes. 

"I  wonder — "  she  sighed. 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  think  so. 
Engel  has  never  been  known  to  give  a  thought 
to  any  woman." 

"Of  course  he  has  not,"  said  the  Professor. 
"He  knows  'em  too  well.  If  a  woman  is  not  a 
fool,  she  is  a  liar;  and  if  she  is  neither,  she's  a 
confounded  nuisance." 

He  pushed  his  chair  noisily,  and  they  heard 
him  growling  to  himself  as  he  left  the  table. 

Miss  Blake  looked  as  if  she  would  cry.  Mer- 
ridew gave  her  a  kind  glance.  "No  one  minds 


Merridew 

the  Professor's  storms,"  he  said;  "we  are  all 
used  to  them." 

"He  is — a  charming  man,"  faltered  Miss 
Blake,  "only  occasionally — a  little  blunt." 

"Quite  so,"  Merridew  agreed. 

He  walked  out  on  to  the  balcony,  and  a 
pleased  look  was  in  his  eyes  as  they  rested  on 
the  scene.  Long  use  had  made  it  familiar,  but 
to  him  it  was  always  new.  Mittenplatz  in  mist, 
Mittenplatz  in  sun,  Mittenplatz  at  dawn,  and 
Mittenplatz  in  the  red  evening  were  so  many 
different  places.  Sometimes  the  houses  were 
transfigured,  their  plain  faces  lighted  up;  and 
when  their  eyes  shone  through  the  mystery  of 
the  moonlight  they  had  charm  for  a  lover's  eye. 

Merridew  was  one  of  the  lovers.  The  fasci- 
nation of  the  place  held  him.  He  had  come  under 
the  spell  of  its  silence  and  its  sun,  and  if  it  had 
been  possible  to  him  to  leave  the  valley,  he  would 
not  have  chosen  to  go.  He  listened  to  the  com- 
ments of  newcomers  with  amusement  in  his  grave 
eyes.  He  knew  that  in  a  month  or  two  the  spell 
would  be  woven  round  them,  too,  and  that 
haunting  mystery  of  the  mountains  would  hold 
them  as  it  held  him. 

He  was  one  of  those  who  troop  into  the  val- 
ley, and  after  a  time  troop  out  again  by  one  of 
its  two  passes.  Some  go  out  by  the  high  pass  of 
the  White  Gate,  and  some  the  train  bears  down 
again  into  the  cities.  Merridew  knew  that  his 
89 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

way  out  would  be  by  the  high  pass.  When  he 
had  first  come  to  the  Mittenthal,  hopelessness 
and  loneliness  had  eaten  his  heart  out.  The 
number  of  invalids  had  melted  with  the  melting 
of  the  snow,  but  he  had  been  among  those  who 
could  not  go  South. 

The  snow  never  altogether  disappears  from 
the  Mittenthal.  Even  after  it  melts  in  the  val- 
ley, through  all  the  summer's  heat  you  can  see 
the  wreaths  lying  on  the  higher  peaks. 

The  other  invalid  in  the  Hotel  Royal  was  a 
woman.  They  called  her  The  Child  in  the 
hotel,  because  she  was  so  little  and  eager,  and  so 
absurdly  young  for  her  years.  She  must  have 
been  forty,  and  she  was  very  poor  and  quite 
alone.  But  she  was  always  gay,  and  her  kind 
brown  eyes  always  had  a  laugh  in  them.  Through 
the  summer  the  man  lying  helpless,  and  The  Child 
almost  as  helpless,  found  their  world  in  each 
other.  She  was  ten  years  older  than  he,  but  her 
eyes  were  ten  years  younger  than  his ;  and  Mer- 
ridew  had  never  thought  about  her  age  at  all. 

He  grew  gay  and  contented  within  sound  of 
her  laugh,  and  in  sight  of  her  eyes.  Their  chairs 
were  always  together  on  the  balcony,  and  they 
read  Browning,  and  played  chess,  and  made  bets 
on  the  weather,  and  laughed  in  the  sun. 

Sometimes  they  went  into  the  fields  where  the 
Griinwasser  flowed,    to   gather  the   flowers,  the 
purple  bells   and   heart's-ease   that  flaunted  in 
90 


Merridew 

the  valley.  They  would  come  back  exhausted, 
and  for  days  after  would  pretend  to  each  other 
that  the  balcony  was  too  desirable  a  place  to 
leave  for  the  fields,  with  their  orchestras  of 
crickets  twanging  away  in  the  grass. 

She  called  these  months  her  holiday.  "When 
the  winter  comes  there  is  too  much  to  do  for  it 
to  be  possible  to  be  idle,"  she  told  him. 

"In  this  place?  Too  much  to  do?"  He  lifted 
his  brows.  "Oh,  yes;  there  are  so  many  to  be 
nursed,  so  many  lonely  ones  to  comfort.  It 
takes  me  all  my  time  to  lift  even  a  corner  of  the 
weight  of  life  from  these  poor  souls.  But  it  is 
worth  doing,"  she  added,  cheerily. 

His  heart  was  in  the  look  he  gave  her.  "You 
have  lifted  all  the  corners  of  my  weight  of  life, 
Child." 

"Have  I?"  she  said,  gaily.  "That  is  good. 
I  am  glad.  You  will  be  able  to  do  it  for  others 
next  winter." 

"Next  winter!"  he  exclaimed.    "Yes,  if — " 

Sh'e  nodded  and  smiled  at  him.  "Oh,  yes; 
you  will  be  here  next  winter.  You  will  be  able 
to  walk  and  go  about  by  that  time." 

"We'll  climb  the  Schatzpitz  together,"  he 
said,  eagerly.  The  faintest  tinge  of  colour  came 
into  her  face.  No  one  had  ever  wanted  her  to 
climb  the  Sweetheart-peak  before. 

"Who  knows?"  she  smiled. 

But  it  would  not  do.     Two  invalids,  and  both 
9* 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

very  ill!  He  had  not  thought  of  their  ages, 
either;  but  she  had,  and  it  was  not  right  to  let 
him^love  her.  She  was  poor,  too,  poorer  than 
he — so  poor  that  she  would  not  be  able  to  afford 
another  winter  in  the  Mittenthal,  though  she 
could  not  live  in  the  lower  air.  She  would  soon 
have  to  go,  and  the  one  romance  of  her  life  must 
end  with  life.  It  would  have  been  a  comfort  to 
have  stayed  beside  him,  if  only  as  a  friend;  but 
that  she  could  not  afford.  No,  she  must  go. 

She  shook  herself  firmly,  while  her  heart 
dropped  like  lead.  In  all  her  forty  years  no 
one  had  ever  loved  her  till  now.  And  she  must 
go  away  and  leave  love  and  life. 

"Child,  Child!"  Merridew  said,  brokenly. 

The  bus  was  at  the  door,  and  she  had  come 
to  say  good-bye  to  him.  She  held  out  her 
hand,  smiling  bravely. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  she  said;  "to  thank 
you — it  has  made  me  so  rich.  I  can't  forget, 
ever.  You  have  given  me — the  happiest  months 
of  my  life."  The  laugh  was  still  in  her  eyes — 
a  little  mirthless  breeze  that  shook  the  words 
out  in  gusts. 

He  took  her  hand,  but  all  the  words  that  came 
to  him  were  "Child,  Child,  Child!"  over  and 
over  again. 

She  clung  to  him,  looking  into  his  eyes,  sunken 
with  weeping.     His  hopeless  face  killed  her. 
92 


Merridew 

"Make  the  poor  souls  happy — as  you  made 
me.  Ah,  no!  that  is  quite  impossible.  But 
help  them,  as  you  help  me,  to  face  death  aju.1- 
ing." 

"Child!"  he  sobbed;  "Child!" 

"I  thought — perhaps — do  you  mind? — you 
would  kiss  me,"  she  said. 

His  arms  clung  about  her.  "Life  might  at 
least  have  given  us  Love,"  he  said,  bitterly. 

She   drew  herself    trembling  from   his   arms. 

"No,  not  Love,"  she  gasped;  "but  Life  gives 
Death,  and — Death  is  Love." 

That  was  four  years  ago,  and  Merridew  was 
still  trying  to  do  what  she  had  done — to  lift  a 
corner  of  the  weight  of  life  from  poor  souls.  It 
made  his  life  in  Mittenplatz  very  busy.  And  the 
Professor  called  him  a  fool. 

He  went  tobogganing  with  Miss  Blake  that 
night.  The  toboggan-run  was  just  outside  the 
hotel;  it  sloped  into  the  meadows  where  the 
Griinwasser  flowed.  The  snow  upon  the  run  was 
set  and  hard  and  slippery  from  the  passing  of 
sleighs.  When  Merridew  and  Miss  Blake  pushed 
off  from  the  top  their  toboggans  sheered  down 
the  hill,  skimming  along  the  ice  like  winged 
creatures.  The  moon  was  full,  and  the  moon- 
light flooded  over  snow  and  sky,  blotting  out  the 
stars.  White-robed  in  snow,  white-veiled  in 
light,  the  meadows  lay  asleep.  It  was  in  these 
93 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

meadows   that    Merridew   and   The   Child   had 
gathered  their  flowers. 

Miss  Blake  was  at  the  end  of  the  run.  Merri- 
dew slowly  dragged  his  toboggan  up  the  hill. 
His  face  was  white  in  the  moonlight.  Presently 
Miss  Blake  came  up  the  hill,  too.  At  the  top 
they  rested  on  their  toboggans. 

"How  still  it  all  is,"  she  said.  "There  is 
something  weird  in  this  Alpine  moonlight.  You 
and  I  might  be  ghosts,  pausing  before  we  slipped 
down  into  our  valley  of  death." 

"There  is  nothing  ghostly  about  you,"  he  said, 
with  the  stress  on  the  pronoun. 

"And  yet,  when  I  feel  the  sweep  and  rush  of 
the  toboggan  down  the  hill,  it  almost  seems  as  if 
I  were  going  into  the  very  depths  of  silence." 

He  gave  her  a  sympathetic  look  that  did  not 
miss  the  strain  on  her  thin  face.  He  liked  Miss 
Blake.  She-  sometimes  reminded  him  of  The 
Child.  She  was  kind  and  helpful,  and  until 
lately  had  been  one  of  the  most  cheerful  persons 
in  the  hotel.  Then  there  had  been  a  coolness 
in  her  friendship  with  the  Professor,  and  the  life 
had  gone  out  of  her  face. 

"Something  wrong  with  your  liver,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"No,  it's  ghosts!"  she  cried.     "This  place  is 

full  of  them.     They  are  all  round  us — the  ghosts 

of  the  people  that  have  died  here,  and  the  ghosts 

of  their  friends'  thoughts  that  come  back  seek- 

94 


Merridew 

ing  them,  and  the  ghosts  that  are  to  be.  They 
troop  up  and  down  the  road.  They  make  me 
feel  sad.  Sometimes  I  wish  I  were  a  ghost, 
too,"  she  added,  wistfully. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Merridew.  "We  should 
all  protest  against  that.  I  don't  know  why  you 
see  ghosts  here.  To  me  the  place  is  full  of  life. 
I  walk  along,  and  see  the  glad  faces  of  the  peo- 
ple that  are  being  cured;  and  if  ghosts  come 
back,  they  come  with  the  radiant  faces  of  those 
that  were  here  ill  and  are  now  strong  and 
healthy.  Every  ray  of  sun,  every  snowflake, 
brings  a  message  of  life  to  some  one  in  the  valley. 
It  is  almost  impossible  to  die  here." 

"I  sometimes  wish  I  could  die,"  she  said,  with 
a  nervous  laugh.  Merridew  thought  how  easy  it 
was  for  healthy  people  to  wish  for  death.  He 
had  intended  going  in,  but  the  catch  in  her 
voice  made  him  change  his  mind. 

"I'll  race  you  down  the  hill,"  he  said,  lightly. 

The  toboggans  were  already  in  line.  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  queer  smile. 

"Yes,  let  us  race,  and  the  one  who  gets  first 
to  the  river  shall  be  the  first  'ghost.'  ' 

With  a  crunch  of  steel  the  runners  took  the 
road,  neck  to  neck,  flying  down  like  live  things. 
Neither  Merridew  nor  Miss  Blake  put  any  check 
on  the  pace.  The  air  flogged  them  back,  its  lash 
stinging  across  their  faces ;  but  they  flew  on,  neck 
to  neck,  down  the  slope.  The  shadow  of  a  big 
95 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

boarding-house  blackened  the  snow.  Neck  to 
neck  they  swept  across  it,  and  came  out  together 
into  the  moonlight.  A  whirr  and  a  rush,  and 
they  were  at  the  sharp  turn  into  the  valley. 

With  a  mad  sweep  they  plunged  forward,  twist- 
ing round  the  corner,  neck  to  neck  still.  She 
had  the  disadvantage  of  the  outside,  and  at  the 
turn  he  gained  a  yard  or  two.  As  the  toboggans 
slowed  she  leaned  forward,  dug  her  pegs  into 
the  ground,  and  shot  abreast  with  him. 

She  sprang  up,  and  her  voice  rang  trium- 
phantly across  the  moan  of  the  Grunwasser: 

"I  won!  I  won!" 

*'No,"  Merridew  panted;  "I  was  first  in." 

"I  passed  you  at  the  finish." 

Her  tone  surprised  him.  He  glanced  at  her, 
and  saw  her  face  change  in  the  moonlight. 

"Yes,  I  "say  again,  you  kill  yourself,"  Dr. 
Engel  repeated.  "Tobogganing  last  night  was 
the  act  of  a  fool." 

Merridew  remained  obstinate. 

"A  little  pain  more  or  less,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter?" he  said.  "A  man  must  use  up  the  waste 
ends.  My  life  is  a  waste  end  of  rope;  it  may  be 
useful  to  piece  out  another  man's  rope." 

"You  may  make  the  rope  long  enough  to  hang 
him  with,"  said  Engel,  "and  yourself,  too." 

"Do  you  think  with  care  I  could  last  out  the 
winter?"  Merridew  asked. 
96 


Merridew 

"With  care, "  Engel  answered. 

He  was  writing  out  a  prescription.  Merridew 
studied  the  face,  with  its  mouth  pursed  over  the 
writing.  He  knew  every  feature  of  it  by  heart, 
every  line  on  the  fine  forehead,  every  flash  of  the 
keen  eyes.  He  knew  every  wrinkle  in  the  waist- 
coat, where  the  figure  broadened.  He  had  given 
up  criticising  Engel's  clothes  since  he  had  learned 
that  the  Doctor  sacrificed  his  clothes  and  his 
appearance  to  his  theory  of  the  destruction  of 
possible  germs.  Merridew  looked  at  him  now 
with  the  devotion  of  the  hero-worshipper.  He 
had  not  forgotten  his  illness  during  the  influenza 
time,  when  Engel  had  sat  up  with  hirn  while  the 
Doctor's  own  temperature  was  high  with  fever. 

"If  I  go  on  as  usual,  Doctor,  how  long  do  you 
give  me?"  he  asked,  when  Engel  had  finished. 

The  Doctor  laid  the  prescription  on  the  table. 

"They  tell  me  the  ice-run  is  in  excellent  con- 
dition," he  said. 

"Capital!"  said  Merridew.  "Royston  made 
the  run  in  eighty  seconds  yesterday." 

"That  was  very  rapid.  Ach!  it  is  glorious 
sport.  I  will  look  in  to-morrow.  Good  day." 

Merridew  looked  quizzically  at  the  disappear- 
ing figure.  "I  might  have  known  he  wouldn't 
tell  me,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  suppose  the 
game  is  nearly  up,  and  if  I  go  on  as  usual  it  will 
be  over  the  sooner.  Granted  I  am  a  fool,  what 
does  a  month  more  or  less  matter?  Dear  little 
97 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Child,  I  shall  find  you  again.  Let  them  say  I  am 
a  fool.  At  least  I  do  something  to  lift  the  weight 
of  life;  I  show  them  how  to  face  death  smiling." 

He  turned  painfully  on  his  pillow.  "I  had 
better  get  up,  or  Miss  Blake  will  think  it  was  the 
tobogganing  last  night.  I  shouldn't  like  her  to 
know  how  nearly  I  won  that  race  into  Ghost- 
land." 

He  dressed  himself  with  difficulty,  resting 
often,  and  dragged  himself  downstairs.  The 
public  rooms  were  empty;  no  sound  of  talking 
came  from  the  balcony.  So  much  the  better. 
If  no  one  was  there,  he  could  lie  quietly  in  the 
sun.  He  went  slowly  to  the  balcony,  and  faced 
a  row  of  figures  lying  silent  and  melancholy  on 
the  chaises  longues. 

A  sudden  vigour  straightened  his  back;  he 
stepped  briskly  towards  them,  rubbing  his  hands. 

"What,  Miss  Busybody,  no  smile,  no  welcome? 
Are  all  the  beauties  asleep,  waiting  for  the 
Prince?" 

Miss  Busybody,  who  was  sitting  on  Philippa's 
knee,  hid  her  face  and  began  to  cry.  Philippa 
drew  her  closer  in  her  arms,  and  raised  a  sad  face 
to  Merridew. 

"We  are  all  so  sorry  because  Sonnie  Baker  is 
worse.  They  have  telegraphed  for  his  aunt." 

"No  one  should  be  sorry,"  said  Merridew. 
"I  would  give  everything  I  have  to  die  as  nobly 
as  that  boy. ' ' 

98 


Merridew 

The  other  people  began  to  discuss  Sonnie's 
sacrifice.  Simplicity  Baldwin  turned  impatiently. 
Her  glance  took  in  Merridew's  stoop,  the  trous- 
ers bagged  at  the  knees,  the  queer,  angular 
way — more  pronounced  than  usual — in  which  he 
carried  himself. 

"I  wish  he  wouldn't  rub  his  hands  and  grin  in 
that  ghastly  fashion,"  she  said,  irritably.  "I 
wish  they'd  stop  talking  of  Sonnie.  It's  bad 
enough  to  have  him  dying  without  seeing  a 
clown  at  the  bedside." 

"Merridew  looks  rather  foolish,"  said  Major 
Sanderson,  "but  he  is  a  good  fellow,  amusing 
and  good-natured,  though  he's  dying,  poor 
devil." 

.   "You  don't  say  he's  dying!"  Simplicity  ex- 
claimed.    "That  man!" 

"You  can't  tell — these  chronic  cases — " 

"My!  if  he  isn't  proposing  fancy  dress!"  she 
interrupted.  "It's  not  a  bad  idea.  It  would 
give  us  something  besides  Sonnie  to  think  of." 
Her  face  brightened.  She  ran  across  and  joined 
the  group  of  which  Merridew  was  the  center. 
He  had  banished  the  gloom.  They  were  dis- 
cussing costumes  and  characters  as  if  Sonnie 
Baker  had  never  charmed  them  by  his  violin  or 
saddened  them  by  his  fate. 

The  Professor  growled   more  than  ever  that 
day.     The  talk  at  Merridew's  end  of  the  table 
had  never  been  gayer.     When  night  came,  and 
99 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

the  fancy  dresses  filed  in  to  dinner,  a  clown  took 
Merridew's  chair. 

"He  looks  more  natural  than  all  the  other 
fools,"  said  the  Professor. 

"I  wish  he  hadn't  chosen  that  dress,"  said 
Miss  Blake,  timidly.  She  and  Philippa  were  the 
only  women  who  had  not  forgotten  that  Sonnie 
lay  dying. 

The  salle-a-manger  was  full  of  gay  voices. 
Every  one  was  talking  and  laughing,  and  criti- 
cising the  dresses;  but  above  the  din  was  the 
incessant  jingle  of  the  bells  in  Merridew's  cap. 
The  eyes  under  the  bells  made  Philippa  uncom- 
fortable. She  had  had  a  glimpse  in  them  of  a 
creature  in  pain. 

"I  wish  he  didn't  know  that  you  called  him  a 
fool,"  she  said  to  the  Professor. 

"Fiddles!"  he  grunted.  "Did  him  good. 
You  see  how  well  the  cap  fits." 

"He  is  wiser  and  more  unselfish  than  we  are," 
she  said.  "See  what  he  does  to  keep  people 
from  being  bored." 

"More  fool  he,"  the  Professor  said. 

At  last  ten  o'clock  came.  The  impromptu 
dance  following  the  dinner  was  over.  The  jingle 
of  Merridew's  bells  had  kept  time  with  the  music, 
and  no  one  had  noticed  that  he  did  not  speak. 
Under  the  paint  no  one  had  seen  the  ashes  on 
his  face. 

100 


Merridew 

He  had  managed  to  get  to  his  room,  but  he 
had  only  strength  enough  to  crawl  to  the  couch. 
He  could  not  even  ring  the  bell.  But  he  was 
suffocating — that  heavy  cap!  But  his  arms  were 
heavy,  too;  he  could  not  raise  them.  He  tried 
to  moisten  his  lips;  the  paint  sickened  him.  He 
gasped,  choking.  He  could  not  tear  off  the 
ruffle  that  was  strangling  him.  He  must  have 
help.  He  rose,  steadying  himself  by  the  table 
under  the  mirror.  Seeing  his  reflection  in  the 
glass,  his  lips  parted  in  a  ghastly  smile. 
"The  Professor  will  say  that  I  am  a — " 
The  sentence  was  finished  by  the  jangle  and 
jar  of  bells  crashing  as  he  fell  forward  on  his 
face. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE    PROFESSOR 

"You  have  taken  the  salt  from  me,  ma'am; 
I'll  thank  you  for  it."  Miss  Blake  did  not  hear 
the  Professor.  She  was  sitting  at  table  d'hote, 
but  her  thoughts  were  not  there.  She  looked 
pinched  and  haggard.  The  colour  had  not  come 
back  into  her  face  since  morning,  when  she  had 
heard  that  Merridew  had  won  the  race  into 
Ghostland.  She  was  straining  her  ears  to  catch 
the  sounds  in  the  hall,  the  stealthy  bustle  and 
muffled  noises  which  told  that  the  dead  man  was 
being  carried  from  the  hotel  to  his  lonely  state 
in  the  mortuary.  As  she  thought  of  it,  she 
could  scarcely  keep  up  the  pretence  of  eating. 

Then  she  nearly  sprang  out  of  her  chair,  for 
the  Professor  had  jogged  her  elbow. 

"The  salt,  ma'am;  the  salt,"  he  said,  testily. 
"One  salt-cellar  has  to  serve  us  both,  as  you 
know  very  well,  and  you  have  taken  it." 

"You  can  have  the  salt;  but  I  didn't  take  it 
from  you,"  she  answered.  Her  voice  was  under 
better  control  than  her  hand.  It  shook  when 
she  pushed  the  salt  towards  him. 

"Take  care — you  will  spill  it,"  he  said,  gruffly. 

102 


The  Professor 

But  the  spoon  had  already  tumbled  over,  and 
the  cloth  was  sprinkled  with  salt. 

"Dear  me,  dear  me!"  she  faltered.  "It  is 
such  a  bad  omen." 

"Couldn't  be  worse,"  the  Professor  said, 
cheerfully.  "Bad  luck;  you  can't  escape  it." 

"Throw  some  salt  over  your  left  shoulder," 
suggested  Philippa,  seeing  Miss  Blake's  agita- 
tion. "That  counteracts  the  bad  luck." 

"No,  no,"  Miss  Blake  stammered-  "I  will 
make  a  cross." 

Her  finger  trembled  as  she  traced  a  cross  on 
the  salt.  The  Professor  looked  on  cynically. 

"A  pack  o'  nonsense,"  he  grunted. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  very  silly,"  she  said,  apolo- 
getically. 

"You  are  a  woman,"  he  answered. 

His  rough  voice  was  heard  distinctly  in  every 
part  of  the  salle-a-manger.  Merridew's  empty 
chair  had  struck  a  silence  across  the  chatter. 
The  echo  of  the  bells  he  had  worn  the  night 
before  was  still  in  the  room.  The  people  at  his 
end  of  the  table  were  trying  to  forget  that  his 
place  would  know  him  no  more  forever. 

The  silence  following  the  Professor's  remark 
was  so  deep  Miss  Blake  felt  that  every  one  must 
hear  the  tears  rushing  to  her  eyes.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  check  them;  but  she  would  not 
betray  herself,  and  she  mastered  her  voice  and 
answered  the  Professor. 
103 


"To  be  a  woman  is  punishment  sufficient." 

From  behind  his  spectacles  he  gave  her  a  keen 
look. 

"Ho,  ho!"  he  laughed.     "It  is,  it  is." 

Philippa  glanced  at  Miss  Blake  with  pleased 
eyes.  She  had  not  expected  her  to  show  such 
spirit. 

Then  Miss  Blake  pushed  away  her  plate  and 
rose,  with  a  pale  smile.  "I  find  the  room  very 
close,"  she  murmured. 

The  Professor  gazed  blankly  after  her  retreat- 
ing figure,  then  went  on  with  the  book  he  was 
reading.  But  the  pages  remained  unturned,  and 
he  refused  the  dishes  at  his  elbow.  His  frown 
drew  his  bushy  brows  together  till  they  met. 
He  missed  the  roar  of  fierce  argument  on  erudite 
topics  with  Miss  Blake.  He  had  been  in  the 
Mittenthal  for  ten  years,  and  she  was  the  first 
woman  he-  had  known  with  whom  logical  argu- 
ment was  possible.  Miss  Blake  had  spent  twenty 
years  in  reading  heavy  treatises  to  her  Aunt 
Sabina,  and  in  arguing  over  them  afterwards. 
In  this  manner  Aunt  Sabina  had  encouraged 
independence  of  thought,  while  discouraging 
every  sign  of  her  niece's  independence  of  action. 

The  Professor  resented  Miss  Blake's  leaving 
the  table,  although  for  several  days  he  had  not 
spoken  to  her.  He  had  come  to  look  upon  her 
almost  as  his  personal  property.  She  made 
things  comfortable  for  him.  His  chair,  screened 
104 


The  Professor 

now  and  cushioned,  was  always  ready  for  him  in 
the  sunny  corner  of  the  balcony.  There  was 
always  a  footstool  and  his  favourite  armchair 
waiting  empty  in  the  reading-room.  No  one  was 
ever  reading  the  Times  when  he  wanted  it.  He 
never  had  to  grumble  over  cold  soup,  however 
late  he  came  to  table.  And  at  night  Miss  Blake 
was  always  at  hand  to  read  to  him  or  to  play 
chess.  These  things  he  had  noticed,  but  there 
were  others  that  he  had  not  noticed.  Babette, 
upstairs,  kept  his  bedroom  fire  going  all  day. 
He  had  had  to  stint  himself  in  firewood  before, 
but  now  the  box  of  wood  never  seemed  to  fail. 
He  did  not  see  that  his  flannels  were  thicker  and 
warmer.  His  bed  was  unusually  comfortable, 
but  he  had  not  discovered  the  hot-water  bottle 
that  warmed  it,  nor  the  English  eiderdown  that 
had  taken  the  place  of  the  Swiss  "plumeau. " 

No  one  ever  saw  Miss  Blake  arranging  these 
things,  and  Babette  would  have  died  rather  than 
betray  her.  But  since  Babette's  illness  Henriette 
had  been  waiting  on  the  Professor,  and  Henri- 
ette's  long  tongue  was  responsible  for  the  Pro- 
fessor's changed  manner  to  Miss  Blake. 

But  he  could  not  keep  up  his  coolness  to  her. 
He  missed  her  too  much.  She  had  become  neces- 
sary to  him;  and  if  she  interfered  with  the 
arrangement  of  the  furniture  in  his  bedroom, 
she  had  done  it  out  of  kindness.  After  all,  the 
room  was  cosier  for  the  screen  that  she  had  sent 
105 


him ;  he  need  not  have  been  huffy  about  it.  That 
temper  of  his  was  unbearable.  It  had  made  him 
call  Merridew  a  fool,  and  Merridew  had  died 
before  he  could  apologise  for  the  insult.  It  had 
made  him  quarrel  with  the  only  woman  worth 
speaking  to  in  the  hotel. 

The  Professor  suddenly  pushed  his  chair  away, 
making  a  great  clatter,  and  stumped  out  of  the 
dining-room.  He  stumped  into  the  hall  and  put 
on  his  coat  and  hat.  Frau  Bullen  stood  at  the 
door,  looking  after  a  group  of  figures  passing 
slowly  along  the  snow.  Her  smile  for  the  Pro- 
fessor was  worn  and  faded.  Then  she  dropped 
her  assumption  of  unconcern,  and  allowed  him 
to  see  her  tears. 

"There  goes  a  brave  heart,"  she  said,  nodding 
towards  the  road.  "People  will  never  know 
how  brave  that  man  has  been.  He  had  his  own 
troubles,  bfit  no  one  ever  knew  them.  He  was 
very  poor,  too.  Imagine  it,  Professor! — not 
enough  money  to  pay  for  the  grave." 

"Then — "   the  Professor  cried,  horrorstruck. 

"Yes,"  said  Frau  Bullen,  sadly;  "the  town 
will  give  the  grave." 

The  Professor  turned  on  his  heels  angrily,  and 
took  the  road.  The  more  he  thought  of  it  the 
more  vexed  he  was  that  Merridew  should  miss 
even  the  poor  dignity  of  his  own  grave.  If  he 
could  have  afforded  it,  he  would  have  paid  for  a 
grave  for  him.  The  Professor  had  strong  views 
106 


The  Professor 

on  the  subject.  He  was  poor  himself,  but  he 
had  not  rested  until  he  had  saved  enough  money 
to  buy  a  grave  and  pay  the  expenses  of  his 
funeral.  To  have  owed  his  grave  to  municipal 
charity  would  have  seemed  to  him  tantamount 
to  spending  eternity  in  the  poorhouse.  But  the 
fate  he  had  avoided  for  himself  had  overtaken 
Merridew. 

The  Professor  shuffled  along  the  road  in  his 
snow-shoes.  He  dug  his  stick  into  the  snow  at 
every  step.  It  was  a  horrible  thought  to  him 
that  Merridew  should  not  be  able  to  pay  for  a 
grave.  He  walked  on,  with  bent  head,  fuming, 
never  noticing  how  long  he  had  been  walking. 
All  at  once  he  pulled  up  and  stared  about  him. 
He  had  reached  the  friedhof.  He  stood  looking 
blankly  at  the  ranks  of  white  stones  rising  from 
the  white  snow,  at  the  billowy  waves  that  every 
winter  rolled  farther  down  the  valley.  In  the 
free  allotment  two  men  stood  measuring  the 
snow. 

The  Professor  ground  his  teeth  when  he  saw 
them.  He  slouched  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and 
shuffled  away,  a  quaint  figure  in  his  caped  coat 
and  big  hat  and  blue  goggles  that  shielded  his 
eyes  from  the  glare.  A  few  yards  from  the  gate 
he  paused  and  looked  back. 

"What  does  it  concern  me?"  he  snarled. 
"The  man  and  his  grave  are  nothing  to  me." 

He  went  on  sullenly  towards  the  village;  then 
107 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

he    stopped    again   and   looked   back   over  his 
shoulders. 

"You  are  a  fool,  a  ridiculous  old  fool!"  he 
addressed  himself.  "A  fool,"  he  repeated,  with 
a  change  of  tone.  "A  fool,"  and  his  voice  sof- 
tened; "a  fool,"  it  dropped  to  regret. 

He  dug  his  stick  into  the  snow;  then  he 
retraced  the  road,  and  shuffled  up  the  path  of 
the  friedhof  to  the  free  allotment,  where  the 
men  were  measuring  out  a  grave  for  Merridew. 

"Stop  that!"  he  growled,  speaking  in  German. 
"There  has  been  a  mistake.  I  have  come  to 
choose  the  grave  for  my  friend.  It  is  I  who 
bear  the  expenses  of  the  funeral." 

He  glanced  towards  a  pine-tree  standing  in  a 
clearing  among  the  tombstones.  There  was  no 
grave  there,  but  the  space  had  been  bought. 
The  Professor's  face  twitched  as  he  saw  the  tree. 
The  little"  freehold  was  his  own.  His  steps 
lingered  as  he  led  the  men  to  the  spot.  He 
walked  slowly,  following  his  dead  pride  to  the 
place  of  burial. 

Coming  out  of  the  friedhof  he  stepped  briskly. 
After  all,  it  was  not  such  a  sacrifice,  he  said  to 
himself.  He  did  not  need  the  place  himself,  and 
by  the  time  his  turn  came  he  might  be  able  to 
save  enough  money  to  pay  for  a  second  piece  of 
ground.  He  was  walking  quite  energetically. 
It  was  as  if  in  giving  up  the  preparations  he  had 
made  for  his  death  he  had  postponed  death  itself. 
108 


The  Professor 

Passing  the  mortuary,  he  paused  a  second  and 
lifted  his  hat.  He  wished  he  could  think  that 
Merridew  knew  he  would  lie  in  a  grave  of  his  own. 

Beyond  the  mortuary  were  meadows  sloping  to 
the  Griinwasser,  where  a  score  of  people  were 
tobogganing.  He  recognized  Simplicity  Bald- 
win by  her  red  dress,  and  he  stopped  to  watch 
her  racing  Royston  and  another  man.  He  did 
not  think  her  heartless  to  be  amusing  herself  so 
near  to  the  place  where  Merridew  was  lying. 
She  was  not  heartless.  With  a  good  many  of  the 
other  healthy  people  in  the  valley  she  ignored 
death  when  it  came  near.  She  had  persuaded 
Miss  Blake  to  come  out  tobogganing,  and  poor 
Miss  Blake  had  set  aside  her  personal  feelings 
and  joined  Simplicity. 

"It  is  what  dear  Mr.  Merridew  would  have 
approved  of,"  she  told  herself.  But  there  was 
no  pleasure  for  her  in  the  sport.  Her  nerves 
were  unstrung,  and  when  she  pushed  off  from  the 
top  of  the  hill  she  was  reminded  of  that  race 
which  Merridew  had  won.  The  remembrance 
shook  her.  She  trembled,  and  lost  control  of 
her  toboggan  in  the  moment  when  the  pace 
quickened. 

The  Professor  caught  sight  of  her  just  as  she 
pushed  off,  and  he  looked  on,  wondering  why  she 
was  steering  so  badly.  Suddenly  there  was  a 
scream,  followed  by  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the 
bank. 

109 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Miss  Blake's  toboggan  had  been  overturned, 
and  her  red-flanneled  legs  were  beating  the  air. 
The  instant  after,  a  confused  heap  of  skirts,  she 
went  rolling  down  the  hill. 

Simplicity  Baldwin,  on  the  bank,  held  her 
sides  and  laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down  her 
face.  The  more  decorous  turned  away  from  Miss 
Blake's  humiliation,  but  the  younger  ones  did 
not  spare  her.  "Funny  old  thing!"  "What  a 
figure  she  cut!"  sounded  everywhere. 

The  Professor's  face  blazed  as  he  heard  them. 
Then  he  seized  Simplicity's  toboggan  and  swung 
himself  down  after  Miss  Blake,  who  had  got  up 
and  was  shaking  the  snow  from  her  skirts. 

She  was  not  hurt,  but  the  Professor  insisted  on 
giving  her  his  arm ;  and  he  led  her  up  the  bank, 
his  blue  goggles  hurling  defiance  at  the  hastily 
composed  faces  that  hurried  to  meet  them.  He 
went  through  the  group,  protecting  Miss  Blake 
from  their  solicitude,  and  he  insisted  on  taking 
her  back  to  the  hotel. 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  Royal  the  embar- 
rassment on  her  face  had  disappeared  before  her 
happiness  at  their  restored  friendship.  She  went 
to  her  room  palpitating,  assuring  herself  that  she 
did  not  mind  her  fall.  Miss  Blake,  with  her 
straight  hair  and  flat  face  and  china-blue  eyes, 
looked  like  a  Dutch  doll,  and  was  full  of  senti- 
ment. She  studied  her  face  in  the  glass, 
smoothing  down  the  lank  bands  that  started 


The  Professor 

from  the  parting  and  went  down  over  the  ears. 
Her  Aunt  Sabina  had  taught  her  to  dress  it  so 
twenty  years  ago,  and  she  had  never  thought  of 
changing  the  fashion.  Her  skimpy  gown  showed 
her  figure  with  cruel  exactness.  She  pinned  it 
tighter  yet  across  her  flat  chest.  The  stuff  was 
poor.  It  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  she  could 
afford  a  better  material  than  she  had  worn  in 
her  aunt's  lifetime.  Aunt  Sabina's  heiress  was 
as  badly  dressed  as  Aunt  Sabina's  humble  com- 
panion had  been. 

Yet  she  was  not  dissatisfied  with  the  face  in 
the  glass.  There  was  something  unaccustomed 
in  it — the  light  and  shade  of  an  emotional  play 
that  made  her  eyes  wistful.  She  moved  away 
from  the  glass,  when  a  knock  interrupted  her 
scrutiny  of  herself. 

Philippa  Joy  came  in  hesitatingly.  Her  direct- 
ness and  energy  were  gone,  her  eyes  were  not  as 
bright  as  usual. 

"May  I  come  in,  Miss  Blake?  Babette  is 
sleeping,  and  Dr.  Engel  has  just  gone,  so  I  can 
stay  a  little.  I  want  to  talk  to  you;  I  am  so 
tired." 

"You  poor  child!  Come  and  sit  here  by  the 
fire.  I  am  just  going  to  make  tea.  You  look 
worn  out.  You  shouldn't  stay  so  much  with 
Babette." 

"I  like  to,"  Philippa  said,  wearily.  "She  is 
so  bright,  and  so  glad  to  be  getting  well.  Miss 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Blake,  I  think  if  it  wasn't  for  Babette  I  would 
go  back  to  England." 

Miss  Blake  was  bustling  with  teacups.  She 
gave  Philippa  a  vague,  baffled  look.  "But,  my 
dear,  wouldn't  Dr  Engel  have  something  to  say 
against  that." 

"No,"  said  Philippa;  "he  would  be  glad  if  I 
went." 

Miss  Blake  set  down  the  teacups  and  came  and 
took  Philippa's  hand. 

"My  dear,  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"It  is  this,"  said  Philippa.  "I  love  him  with 
all  my  heart,  and  I  thought  he  loved  me.  He 
doesn't.  That  is  all." 

She  bit  her  lips  and  stared  into  the  fire. 
"What  am  I  to  do?"  she  said  at  last. 

"Nothing,"  said  Miss  Blake.  "It  is,  of 
course,  strange  to  me  to  hear  a  woman  speak 
openly  of-  love,  but  you  belong  to  the  younger 
generation.  My  dear,  the  Doctor  is  a  hard  man ; 
you  will  marry  some  one  worthier  of  yourself. 
Be  patient.  Life  is  only  just  begun." 

"A  hard  man?"  Philippa  blazed  up,  springing 
to  her  feet  and  glaring  at  Miss  Blake.  "Little 
you  know  him!  He  is  tenderness  itself — ten- 
derer than  any  woman.  His  life  is  beautiful — so 
lonely,  so  unselfish.  He  is  better  than  any 
saint." 

"My  dear,  I  have  no  doubt  he  is  a  very  worthy 
person,"  said  Miss  Blake,  primly.  "Indeed,  I 
112 


The  Professor 

hear  of  his  kindness  on  every  side,  but  it  is  the 
kindness  of  the  doctor,  not  of  the  man.  I  could 
wish  that  you  had  placed  your  affections  else- 
where. When  I  contrast  Dr.  Engel  with  such  a 
man  as  the  Professor — " 

"The  Professor!"  Philippa  exclaimed.  "Do 
you  name  the  Professor  on  the  same  day  with  a 
man  like  Dr.  Engel?" 

"Indeed,  my  dear,  I  do,"  said  Miss  Blake, 
earnestly.  "His  chivalry,  his  good  heart,  his 
consideration — ' ' 

Philippa  burst  into  a  ringing  laugh,  and  gath- 
ered Miss  Blake  into  her  arms. 

"Oh,  Miss  Blake,  you  are  delicious!  We 
won't  quarrel  about  our  friends.  There!  I  feel 
better  already.  I  won't  go  back  to  England. 
I  don't  want  to.  I  love  the  Mittenthal — it  is 
fascinating;  and  I  can  help  people  if  I  stay — 
people  like  Babette,  you  know.  And  you  will  be 
here  to  comfort  me  when  I  feel  very  lonely,  and 
you  will  be  my  friend.  There!  forgive  me,  I 
have  rumpled  your  hair." 

She  kissed  Miss  Blake,  and  drew  away  and 
gazed  at  her  in  surprise.  The  faded  face  had 
lighted  up,  the  hair  she  had  ruffled  lay  in  rings, 
softening  the  flat  lines  of  the  face.  The  ten- 
derness in  the  eyes  warmed  their  cold  blue. 
Suddenly  they  were  misty. 

"My  dear,"  Miss  Blake  faltered,  "I  have 
never  had  a  friend.  It  is  too  much  to  hope  that 
"3 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

a  bright  young  creature  like  you — should  love 
me!" 

"Nonsense!"  said  Philippa.  "Come  here; 
look  at  yourself.  Isn't  that  a  face  to  be  loved?" 

"My  dear,  my  dear!"  Miss  Blake  hid  her 
face,  blushing. 

"Yes,"  said  Philippa.  "Now  sit  down.  I  am 
going  to  do  your  hair  for  you." 

The  girl  would  not  be  resisted.  Finally  Miss 
Blake  sat  down,  and  Philippa  fluffed  out  a  ring- 
let here,  and  pulled  a  strand  there,  and  turned 
the  hair  back,  softening  the  lines.  Miss  Blake 
scarcely  recognized  herself.  Her  face  was  fuller, 
her  eyes  larger  and  darker  under  the  friendly 
curls. 

"Dear  me,  I  scarcely  recognise  Jane  Blake," 
she  said,  with  a  gratified  laugh.  "But  this  gown 
does  not  become  the  headdress." 

"No,  it  ^.doesn't,"  Philippa  said,  quickly. 
"None  of  your  frocks  do  you  justice.  Wait  a 
minute;  let  me  put  some  lace  on  that  bodice, 
and  show  you  what  I  mean." 

Miss  Blake  went  slowly  downstairs.  In  the 
pleasure  of  the  transformation  Philippa  had 
worked  she  had  quite  forgotten  the  toboggan 
episode.  She  stood  aside  to  let  the  Professor 
pass. 

"Is  it  you?"  he  said.     "Bless  my  soul,  what 
have  you  been  doing  to  yourself?" 
114 


The  Professor 

He  put  on  his  spectacles  and  looked  her  up 
and  down.  She  blushed  under  his  gaze. 

"Ton  my  soul,  it's  made  a  young  girl  of  you. 
Well,  well,  I  feel  like  a  musty  old  folio  beside  a 
Temple  classic." 

That  night  there  was  a  sensation  at  table 
d'hote.  It  was  not  only  that  Miss  Blake  had 
suddenly  lost  her  resemblance  to  a  Dutch  doll; 
for  the  first  time  in  memory  the  Professor  had 
appeared  at  table  in  a  white  tie  and  a  black  coat 
of  some  antiquity. 

One  morning  he  stood  in  the  hall  examining 
his  great  coat.  The  coat  was  certainly  his; 
there  was  his  name  and  the  name  of  the  tailor 
who  supplied  his  clothes  printed  on  the  silk 
strap  inside,  and  yet  there  seemed  to  be  some- 
thing different  about  it.  But  he  couldn't  be 
mistaken.  He  put  on  the  coat,  turned  round, 
and  saw  Miss  Blake. 

"Hm!  Going  shopping,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  Professor;  I  thought  of  walking  across 
the  lake." 

"That  will  suit  me.  I  have  business  at  the 
Grunwald." 

The  Grunwald  was  an  inn  at  the  other  side  of 
the  lake.  The  sun  had  not  yet  climbed  the 
Rosenalp,  and  as  they  came  out  of  the  hotel  the 
cold  slashed  their  faces,  but  in  the  distance  Pitz- 
endorf  shone  in  the  sunlight.  The  light  glis- 
"5 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

tened  on  Seehorn  and  Schwarzhorn  and  Weiss- 
horn,  and  the  chalet  windows  held  flashing  fires 
of  sunrise.  The  hotel  omnibus  came  along  the 
road  with  a  clashing  of  bells,  and  Karl  the 
porter  took  off  his  hat  as  it  passed. 

"Confound  him!"  grumbled  the  Professor, 
crushing  his  wideawake  over  the  bald  place  that 
the  cold  had  bitten. 

"Don't  confound  him,"  said  Miss  Blake,  with 
a  gay  little  laugh.  "He  is  such  a  nice  young 
man.  Have  you  heard  that  he  and  Babette  are 
to  be  married  as  soon  as  she  has  got  over  her 
illness?" 

"Yes;  and  I  think  them  foolish  young  people." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  A  love-match  is 
always  wise." 

The  Professor  stopped  and  stabbed  the  snow 
with  his  stick.  There  was  a  threat  behind  the 
blue  goggles. 

"What!  love-matches  wise?  And  I  thought 
you  were  a  sensible  woman,  remaining  single 
because  you  saw  the  folly  of  matrimony." 

"I  am  not  single  for  choice,"  she  said,  cheer- 
fully. "No  one  ever  asked  me  to  marry." 

"Then  I  congratulate  you.  So  you've  never 
been  in  love?" 

They  were  close  to  the  church  that  spread 

itself  across  the  road  at  the  foot  of  the  Pitzen- 

berg.     The  tower  was  square  and  plain,  crowned 

by  two  tiers  of  arched  windows   supporting  a 

116 


The  Professor 

cupola.  The  plaster  was  stained  with  age,  but 
the  stains  were  rose  and  blue  and  green,  youth's 
colours.  Through  the  tower  windows  could  be 
seen  the  bells,  hanging  silent. 

Miss  Blake  turned  away  from  the  Professor's 
gaze.  There  was  a  certain  embarrassment  in 
her  air.  She  looked  up  at  the  weather-vane 
above  the  cupola.  The  wind  was  in  the  north. 
Her  eyes  dropped  to  the  church  door,  with  its 
brass  slit  under  the  armen-kasse. 

"They  talk  of  pulling  down  this  quaint  old 
church,"  she  said,  unsteadily. 

"Iconoclasts!"  he  growled.  "An  interesting 
example  of  Byzantine  influence — and  they  pull  it 
down  in  order  to  run  up  a  hideous  hotel." 

"I  hope  they  won't  do  that,"  she  said. 

They  climbed  the  hill  in  silence,  the  Professor 
trying  to  hold  himself  straight  and  keep  step 
with  Miss  Blake. 

Suddenly  he  broke  silence:  "What  is  the  use 
of  marriage?  What  is  the  end  of  it,  eh?" 

She  looked  up,  startled  at  his  tone,  and  her 
gaze  flitted  about  and  found  nothing  to  rest  on. 

"My  Aunt  Sabina  used  to  say  the  end  of  mar- 
riage was  the  mending  of  socks,"  she  said,  with 
an  effort  at  control. 

The  Professor  gave  her  a  suspicious  glance. 
But  no,  she  could  not  possibly  know  the  state 
'of  his  wardrobe.     Besides,  it  was  a  long  time 
since  he  had  worn  a  hole  in  his  socks. 
117 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"The  man  who  burdens  himself  with  a  wife  is 
a  fool,"  he  went  on.  "He  pulls  down  his  tower 
of  silence,  embodying  the  fine  influences  of  the 
past,  and  runs  up  in  its  place  a  noisy,  clattering, 
vulgar  hotel." 

The  lake  was  before  them,  its  level  snow 
edged  by  road  and  pine  wood.  The  snow  glit- 
tered, every  crystal  a  flash  and  a  gleam ;  but  the 
road  was  in  shadow.  It  wound  on  to  the  Todten- 
berg,  the  dead  mountain,  on  which  no  living 
thing  would  grow.  On  the  lake  was  a  circle  of 
blocks  of  ice.  The  blocks  were  clear  and  blue; 
they  imprisoned  the  summer  sky,  and  where  the 
sun  touched  them  they  glanced  like  diamonds. 
To  the  Professor  they  only  suggested  Stone- 
henge,  and  they  set  him  talking  of  Druidical 
circles  and  barrows  and  tumuli,  and  the  ways 
in  which  different  ages  disposed  of  the  dead. 

He  handled  the  subject  with  gusto.  Miss 
Blake  listened,  a  pale  shadow  on  her  face,  a 
deprecating  pain  in  her  eyes.  Suddenly  he 
stopped. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  ma'am?  You 
are  very  uninteresting  to-day." 

"Am  I?"  she  said,  rousing.  "I  was  thinking 
of  Mrs.  Royston's  love-story,  and  wondering  how 
many  romances  had  begun  and  ended  on  this 
lake." 

"It's  been  the  ruin  of  Royston's  life  that  he 
ever  had  any  love-story.  He  would  have  done 
118 


The  Professor 

better  to  have  gone  under  the  ice  than  to  have 
skated  on  it  with  that  girl  when  he  did." 

"Oh,  Professor!"  said  Miss  Blake,  shocked. 

"Yes,  ma'am!"  the  Professor  said.  •  "You 
had  better  die  than  drag  out  a  ruined  life.  It  is 
I  that  tell  you  so.  Death  is  always  dignified. 
Life  is  sometimes  an  indignity.  And  life  with  a 
woman  who  forces  herself  on  a  man,  as  Roy- 
ston's  wife  did,  is  the  most  undignified  of  all 
lives.  Marriage  is  always  ruin,  and  Royston's 
marriage  has  damned  him." 

Miss  Blake's  lips,  tightly  pressed  together, 
were  marked  by  a  white  line.  Her  voice  flut- 
tered when  she  spoke. 

"Do  you  see,  Professor,  we  are  close  to  the 
Griinwald?  There  is  the  ice-run.  How  steep 
it  looks!  I  should  like  to  toboggan  down  it 
some  day." 

"Do  you  want  to  commit  suicide,  young 
woman?" 

"I  had  not  thought  of  it  as  suicide,  Professor. " 

"For  you  it  would  be  suicide.  Only  an  expert 
could  come  safely  down  that  run.  You  are  not 
an  expert.  You  toboggan  very  badly  indeed." 

Miss  Blake  thought  of  her  accident,  and  a  thin 
flush  showed  on  her  strained  face.  She  was  silent. 

The  Professor's  business  at  the  Grtinwald  was 
to  eat  great  slices  of  rye  bread  and  goat's-milk 
cheese,  and  to  drink   German  beer.     When   he 
had  finished  they  set  out  again. 
119 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"You  are  positively  stupid  to-day,"  he  said  to 
Miss  Blake,  going  down  the  Pitzenberg.  "What 
has  happened  to  you?" 

The  clash  and  wrangle  of  bells  pealing  from 
the  church-tower  prevented  his  hearing  her 
answer. 

"Do  you  hear?  Some  poor  devil  has  com- 
mitted the  suicide  of  matrimony,"  he  shouted  in 
her  ear. 

At  the  door  of  the  Hotel  Royal  he  detained 
her. 

"What  is  wrong  with  you?  I  am  sure  I  didn't 
say  anything  to  hurt  you  to-day,  did  I?' 

She  gave  him  a  pale  smile,  shook  her  head, 
and  hurried  away  upstairs. 

The  Professor  stared  after  her;  his  mouth 
dropped. 

"Boh!  I  have  you!" 

Miss  Busybody  darted  out  from  behind  the 
coats  and  seized  his  legs. 

"What!  what!  Hillo!  Oh,  it's  you,  you 
small  hurricane.  You  nearly  blew  me  over." 

"Where's  my  Christmas-card  you  promised 
me  and  never  gave  me?"  she  said,  reproachfully. 

"Didn't  I?  didn't  I?  But  I  bought  it.  Yes, 
I  know  I  bought  it.  It's  in  my  pocket  some- 
where. Tush!  where's  the  confounded  thing?" 

His  hands  went  plunging  in  and  out  of  his 
pockets,  Miss  Busybody's  shining  eyes  darting 
after  each. 

120 


The  Professor 

"It's  here!  I  know  it's  here!"  he  said,  irri- 
tably. "A  wretched  thing  of  a  grey  kitten,  like 
Fifine;  I  bought  it  for  the  likeness." 

"It  must  be  in  the  pocket  of  your  old  coat," 
the  child  said. 

"An  old  coat?  I  haven't  an  old  coat,"  he 
said,  crossly.  "It  must  be  here  somewhere. 
This  is  the  only  overcoat  I  have,  and  I  put  the 
card  in  the  pocket." 

"No,  it  isn't  your  only  overcoat,"  she  said, 
with  a  knowing  look.  "This  one  is  your  new 
one,  that  Miss  Blake  hung  on  the  peg  when  she 
took  away  the  old  one.  I  know,  for  I  saw  her. 
It  was  Christmas  morning,  when  I  was  hidded 
watching  for  the  Christ-kind.  And  Dr.  Engel 
came,  and  Miss  Blake  hidded,  too.  Can  I  ask 
her  to  let  me  look  in  the  old  coat  for  the  card?" 

The  Professor  did  not  answer;  his  mouth  had 
dropped  again. 

"May  I,  Professor,  may  I?"  cried  Miss  Busy- 
body, prancing  round  him. 

"Certainly  not!"  he  shouted.  "Certainly 
not!  If  you  mention  that  confounded  card — 
coat — card — to  anybody,  I'll  cut  your  head  off 
and  bury  you  in  my  own  grave." 

He  went  slowly  up  the  stairs,  frowning  and 
fuming.  This  came  of  letting  women  into  his 
life.  It  was  horrible!  indecent!  She  gave  him 
a  screen,  and  he  had  forgiven  her.  And  now  an 
overcoat.  That  was  unpardonable.  No  man 

121 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

would  stand  it.  She  would  go  on  doing  these 
things  till  he  would  be  obliged  to  marry  her  in 
self-defence,  like  poor  Royston.  And  ruin  his 
life,  and  his  calculations  of  solar  eclipses!  If 
he  married,  they  would  never  be  finished.  He 
would  have  to  go  away.  There  was  nothing  for 
it  but  flight.  And,  after  all,  since  he  no  longer 
had  a  grave  in  the  friedhof,  there  was  nothing 
to  keep  him  in  the  Mittenthal.  He  could  live 
just  as  well  in  one  of  the  other  Alpine  stations. 
"Confound  you!  come  in,"  he  shouted. 

Frau  Bullen  came  in,  with  a  mysterious  lower- 
ing of  her  eyes.  "I  wished  to  say,  Professor," 
she  whispered,  "if  you  would  rather  not  bear  the 
expenses  of  poor  Mr.  Merridew's  funeral,  there 
is  some  one  else  who  is  anxious  to  do  it — " 

The  Professor  brought  his  brows  together, 
frowning  horribly.  "No,  ma'am!"  he  thun- 
dered. "I  have  gone  forward,  and  I  will  not  go 
back.  God  knows  it  may  be  the  salvation  of  me 
that  I  have  got  rid  of  that  grave,  and  can  leave 
this  hole  of  designing  women." 


122 


CHAPTER  VII 

MISS   BLAKE 

Miss  Blake  stood  at  her  window  looking  at  the 
piled-up  snow  that  had  blotted  out  the  roads 
across  the  valley.  There  had  been  a  great 
storm,  keeping  every  one  in  the  hotel  for  three 
days,  but  to-day  the  sun  shone  again,  and  the 
valley  was  a  wonder  of  gleaming  white. 

The  snow  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  Miss 
Blake's  face,  blotting  out  lines,  making  it  a 
white  blank  without  expression.  Her  eyes  were 
dull,  her  figure  limp  and  depressed.  There  was 
no  one  to  ask  her  what  ailed  her.  She  might 
be  as  miserable  as  life,  and  the  Professor  would 
not  grumble  at  her.  She  could  have  borne  his 
roughest  mood  better  than  the  silence  of  the  last 
three  days. 

Tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  dimmed  the 
shining  valley  and  the  snow-muffled  chalets.  The 
Pension  Tannenwald  was  half-buried  in  drifts. 
Miss  Blake  wondered  what  the  people  there  were 
doing,  cut  off  from  Mittenplatz  as  certainly  as 
she  was  cut  off  from  the  happiness  of  life. 

She  could  see  nothing  for  the  tears  that 
attended  the  death  of  her  hopes.  She  pressed 
123 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

her  hands  together,  striving  to  conquer  them. 
They  had  been  her  portion  ever  since  the  Pro- 
fessor had  gone  away. 

If  there  had  been  any  reason  for  his  absence 
she  would  not  have  felt  it  so  much;  but  he  had 
left  the  hotel  without  a  word  of  explanation  to 
any  one,  and  she  was  miserable  at  this  end  to 
their  friendship. 

She  remembered  their  arguments,  the  daily 
walks  together,  the  quarrels  that  had  made  them 
better  friends.  He  had  been  the  only  figure  in 
her  world,  and  she  missed  him.  She  shrank 
from  telling  herself  how  much  she  missed  him. 
She  had  wondered  at  Philippa's  confession  of 
love  for  a  man  who  did  not  love  her.  Now, 
though  she  did  not  belong  to  the  modern  gener- 
ation, she  had  to  confess  to  something  like  love 
for  the  Professor,  who  had  not  treated  her  with 
common  civility.  She  went  out  onto  the  bal- 
cony, and  sat  there  miserably.  Her  heart  was 
too  heavy  for  tears  now.  She  could  not  think ; 
she  could  not  even  feel.  She  sat  pressing  her 
hands  together,  her  blank  eyes  staring  across 
the  snow. 

There  were  voices  on  the  balcony  just  under 
her.  Frau  Bullen  and  Simplicity  Baldwin  were 
talking  together.  Their  words  had  no  meaning 
for  Miss  Blake. 

"I  have  always  liked  the  little  old  maid," 
Frau  Bullen  was  saying,  "but  she  has  behaved 
124 


Miss  Blake 

very  badly.  Poor  man!  she  has  driven  him 
away,  I  know.  He  told  me  himself  he  would 
not  stay  in  this  hole  of  designing  women.  Of 
course  he  meant  her." 

"My!  I  should  think  he  meant  nothing  of  the 
sort!"  Simplicity  cried.  "Why,  she  is  sweet — a 
perfectly  lovely  character.  I  don't  call  her 
a  designing  woman  at  all." 

"You  don't  know,"  Frau  Bullen  sighed. 
"Henriette  has  told  me.  She  has  bought  him 
flannels  and  stockings,  because  he  was  too  poor 
to  get  them  himself.  Oh,  she  meant  him  to 
marry  her.  And  he  saw  her  arts,  and  has  gone 
away  to  escape  them." 

"Poor  little  thing!  the  best  thing  for  her," 
Simplicity  cried.  "I'd  as  lief  marry  a  beetle  as 
the  Professor.  But  I  presume  he  liked  her. 
They  were  always  together." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  he  found  her  useful,  of 
course.  But  that  is  not  love.  And  she  is  a 
dowdy  woman,  without  a  sou." 

"But  she  isn't  dowdy.  Her  new  gown  is  ele- 
gant." 

"I  suppose  she  dressed  to  attract  him.  Well, 
she  won't  find  herself  welcome  at  the  Royal  any 
longer." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Frau  Bullen,"  Philippa's 

voice   broke   in.     "Every  one   here   loves   her, 

while  no  one  cared  much  for  that  bad-tempered 

old  Professor.     And  if  she  gave  him  stockings, 

125 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

it's  only  what  she  has  done  for  other  people. 
She  was  going  to  give  Babette  her  trousseau  and 
all  the  house  linen,  and  you  can't  say  she  wanted 
to  marry  Babette." 

"I  say  she  is  throwing  away  the  money  she 
will  need  for  herself,"  said  Frau  Bullen. 

"She  has  plenty  for  herself  and  other  people, 
too,"  Philippa  went  on.  "Only  yesterday  Mrs. 
Royston  told  me  what  she  had  done  for  them ; 
and  she  has  paid  for  a  south  room  for  Sonnie 
Baker  all  winter.  She  invited  Sonnie's  aunt  to 
come  as  her  guest  when  he  was  taken  ill.  She 
is  as  good  as  she  can  be,  and  it  makes  me  furious 
to  hear  your  abominable  scandals." 

"I  am  not  making  scandals,"  protested  Sim- 
plicity. "I  admire  Miss  Blake.  She  is  worlds 
too  good  for  that  snuffy  old  Professor." 

Miss  Blake  stumbled  into  her  room  and  closed 
the  balcony'door.  She  sank  down  on  the  sofa, 
shaking.  Had  they  really  been  speaking  of  her? 
Was  it  she  who  had  driven  the  Professor  away? 
Oh,  it  couldn't  be  true!  It  couldn't  be  true! 

She  shrank  into  herself,  and  her  face  was  piti- 
ful. She  twisted  her  fingers  together,  making  a 
little  moaning  noise.  What  was  this  terrible 
thing  that  they  were  saying?  How  could  she 
ever  face  these  people  again?  A  designing 
woman?  Did  he  really  think  she  was  a  design- 
ing woman? 

Her  face  shriveled,  her  whole  figure  withered 
126 


Miss  Blake 

as  if  a  blight  had  fallen  upon  her.  The  shame 
of  it  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

And  he  had  only  found  her  useful.  And  that 
was  not  love.  She  cowered  down  and  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  lay  very  still.  Strength 
seemed  to  be  ebbing  out  of  her.  She  thought 
she  was  dying.  She  hoped  she  was  dying.  How 
could  women  live  of  whom  such  things  were 
said? 

"Miss  Blake,"  Philippa  called  at  the  door. 

The  interruption  sent  the  blood  shuddering  in 
her  veins. 

"I — am — resting — dear,"  she  gasped. 

"That's  right.  Don't  forget  that  you  have  to 
go  to  the  toboggan-race  this  afternoon.  The  ice- 
run  is  open  again." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,  for  reminding  me." 

Philippa  had  reminded  her  of  the  ice-run  at 
the  Griinwald. 

"Do  you  want  to  commit  suicide,  young 
woman?" 

She  gave  a  strange  little  laugh  as  she  tottered 
up. 

"I  am  thinking  of  suicide,  Professor." 

The  room  was  full  of  his  voice.  "You  had 
better  die  than  drag  out  a  ruined  life.  It  is  I 
who  tell  you  so.  Death  is  always  dignified." 

Ah,  yes,  yes!  How  true  he  had  been.  Death 
would  be  dignified,  and  how  much  better  than 
life  after  this!  It  would  be  an  easy  death;  she 
127 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

knew  the  swift  rush  down,  down,  into  the  silence. 
It  would  not  be  different  from  her  fall  the  other 
day.  Merridew  had  had  the  start  of  her,  but 
she  would  soon  overtake  him  in  the  Ghostland 
to  which  she  was  going.  Death  was  more  digni- 
fied than  life — ah,  yes,  yes!  She  only  wanted 
death.  And  they  would  think  it  was  an  acci- 
dent. He  would  never  know  that  she  had  wished 
to  commit  suicide. 

Thought  whirled  with  thought  in  her  brain. 
The  spinning  confusion  dazed  her.  She  laughed 
again,  a  queer,  shaky  laugh  that  matched  the 
palsy  of  her  shaking  head.  She  held  on  to  the 
back  of  the  couch.  What  did  people  do  who 
were  going  to  die?  What  had  Aunt  Sabina 
done?  Made  a  will?  Yes;  she  must  make  her 
will.  She  would  leave  all  she  had  to  her  friend. 
He  was  very  poor,  she  knew.  The  money  would 
atone  for  any  trouble  she  had  given  him. 

She  remembered  the  wording  of  the  deed  of 
gift  the  lawyer  had  once  drawn  up  for  Aunt 
Sabina.  She  wrote  out  a  similar  deed.  But  she 
must  have  witnesses.  Henriette  and  Marie,  who 
could  not  read  English.  When  the  formality 
was  over  she  sat  staring  at  the  envelope  ad- 
dressed to  Professor  Franklin.  The  beginning 
of  the  letter  she  had  written  to  him  drummed  in 
her  ears:  "In  case  of  my  death."  Then  she 
might  not  die.  But  yes,  death  would  be  kind. 
She  had  been  close  behind  Merridew  in  their 
128 


Miss  Blake 

race  to  Ghostland.  It  was  a  sign;  she  would 
soon  overtake  him  now. 

She  was  still  shaking.  As  she  went  about  the 
room  setting  things  in  order  the  little  curls  on 
her  temples  trembled.  Even  her  thoughts,  she 
felt,  were  trembling.  "It  is  not  seemly — to 
have  such  things  said — it  is  not  maidenly,"  she 
murmured,  brokenly.  "A  reputation  like  that? — 
for  me?  Ah,  no;  death  is  more  dignified." 

She  was  tying  the  ribbons  of  her  old-fashioned 
hat  under  her  chin,  carefully,  before  the  mirror. 
She  staggered  back.  She  had  seen  in  the  glass 
the  face  Aunt  Sabina  had  worn  when  she  was 
dying.  And  Aunt  Sabina  had  been  an  old 
woman,  while  she  was  comparatively  young.  He 
had  told  her  once  she  looked  like  a  girl.  But 
now  she  was  an  old,  old  woman. 

"If  they  see  me,  they  will  guess,"  she  said, 
hoarsely.  "At  luncheon-time  they  carry  out 
the  dead.  When  they  are  at  lunch  I  will  go." 
She  went  stealthily  downstairs.  Her  steps  were 
heavy  and  slow  and  muffled.  She  was  carrying 
out  her  dead — youth  and  hope  and  love  and  self- 
respect.  She  wondered  if  the  people  at  table 
d'hote  would  hear  the  heavy  tread  and  know 
that  the  dead  were  passing. 

The  clouds  had  gathered  again,  and  the  sun- 
less day  pinched  her  face.  She  tottered  as  she 
walked,  though  the  footway  had  been  cleared  of 
the  thick  snow.  Snow  was  heavy  on  road  and 
129 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

chalet  and  pine.  The  whole  earth  seemed 
muffled  in  the  folds.  They  closed  about  the 
tottering  figure  on  the  path,  and  folded  her  also 
in  thick  silence.  The  silence  was  on  her  heart, 
a  winding-sheet  for  the  dead  that  lay  there — 
Youth  and  Hope  and  Love.  They  were  the  chil- 
dren of  her  old  age ;  she  had  scarcely  learned  to 
know  their  faces,  and  now  the  desire  of  her  eyes 
was  taken  from  her  at  a  stroke.  She  was  going 
forth  alone  to  bury  her  dead. 

At  the  bend  of  the  road  she  met  the  light 
snowflakes.  They  covered  her  with  tiny  stars. 
The  chalets  at  Pitzen  were  deep  in  snow.  The 
mountains  above  them  looked  down  with  cold, 
white  regard  at  the  lonely  woman  toiling  by. 
The  morning  she  had  walked  with  the  Professor 
the  sun  had  burnished  the  peaks,  and  the  chalet 
windows  had  smiled  rosily. 

She  stopped  at  the  church  at  Pitzen  and  put 
all  the  money  she  had  into  the  armen-kasse. 
Nothing  was  left  in  the  purse  but  the  card  with 
her  name  and  address. 

Her  feet  dragged  wearily  as  she  climbed  the 
Pitzenberg,  but  she  took  her  way  still  where  the 
road  sloped  to  the  river.  She  did  not  notice 
the  snow  deepening  as  she  walked,  or  the  weight 
of  the  toboggan  dragging  behind  her.  She  was 
only  conscious  of  the  weight  at  her  heart;  she 
saw  only  the  pale  faces  of  her  dead.  "Youth 


130 


Miss  Blake 

and  Hope  and  Love,  Youth  and  Hope  and  Love," 
she  kept  on  saying. 

There  was  no  diamond-flash  on  the  lake.  The 
blocks  of  ice  stood  shrouded.  The  shroud  of 
the  snow  lay  on  everything;  it  was  deep  on  the 
lake;  she  could  scarcely  make  her  way  in  places. 
But  she  did  not  notice  the  snow  clogging  her 
feet,  dragging  her  back.  It  was  right  that  she 
should  go  slowly,  who  followed  the  dead.  Here 
he  had  talked  of  different  modes  of  burial.  Ah! 
he  had  not  known  then  with  what  slow  steps  she 
would  toil  across  the  lake  carrying  her  dead. 

How  many  romances  had  been  born  and  had 
died  on  that  lake!  Her  romance  lay  stark  in  the 
death-chamber  of  her  heart.  It  was  only  three 
months  old.  "Love  and  Hope  and  Love.  Love 
and  Hope  and  Love."  Ah,  it  had  been  cruel. 
She  was  not  a  young  woman,  loving  lightly 
to-day  and  leaving  brightly  to-morrow.  She  was 
one  of  those  in  whom  Love  was  born  slowly, 
with  anguish  and  long  travail.  And  now  Love 
lay  stark  in  the  death-chamber.  "Love  and 
Love  and  Love.  Love  and  Love  and  Love." 

"You  had  better  die  than  drag  out  a  ruined 
life." 

He  had  said  that  just  here.  She  lifted  the 
desperate  pallor  of  her  face  to  the  cold  pallor  of 
the  Todtenberg. 

"I  am  thinking  of  suicide,  Professor." 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

The  muffled  bumping  of  the  toboggan  behind 
her  was  like  the  beat  of  a  muffled  drum. 

She  had  reached  the  Griinwald.  Yes,  the  path 
was  clear.  She  dragged  her  toboggan  up,  up 
through  the  wood  where  the  pines  were  weighted 
with  snow,  to  the  beginning  of  the  ice-run. 
That  also  had  been  cleared  of  snow.  She 
remembered  that  she  had  turned  her  eyes  from 
seeing  the  end  of  the  run,  where  the  ice  lay  like 
a  blade  against  the  sheerness  of  the  bank. 

She  seated  herself  on  the  toboggan,  arranging 
her  skirts  carefully.  A  wistful  smile  flitted 
across  her  face.  To-day  there  would  be  no  Pro- 
fessor to  help  her  up  when  she  fell.  Her  thought 
staggered  a  little.  She  clutched  at  the  sides  of 
the  toboggan.  She  steadied  herself.  This  was 
weakness.  Love  was  dead.  There  was  nothing 
left. 

It  had  grown  very  dark.  The  pines  swayed 
strangely.  They  seemed  bending  towards  her. 
Were  those  hands  bringing  snow  that  she  might 
bury  her  dead?  The  beating  of  her  heart  was 
like  death  itself.  It  urged  her  on,  whipping  her 
lagging  courage. 

She  jerked  the  toboggan,  and  it  bounded  for- 
ward like  a  horse  springing  to  a  race.  Quicker 
and  quicker,  between  the  high  white  banks  like 
the  marble  bed  of  a  river.  Quicker  and  quicker, 
between  the  high  white  walls  like  the  walls  of  a 
grave.  The  scream  of  the  runners  ran  along 
132 


Miss  Blake 

with  the  toboggan.  It  deafened  her.  Quicker 
and  quicker,  to  get  away  from  it!  The  white 
walls  flashed  past,  quicker  and  quicker.  The 
winged  rush  through  the  air  was  endless. 
Quicker  and  quicker.  She  closed  her  eyes.  In 
her  ears  there  was  the  thunder  of  steel  scraping. 

The  Professor  shuffled  along  the  road,  swear- 
ing at  the  untrodden  path.  Those  three  days  in 
the  Pension  Tannenwald  had  been  a  horrible 
experience.  He  had  had  no  screened  seat  on 
the  balcony,  no  open  fireplace  and  favourite 
armchair,  not  a  single  English  paper,  no 
friendly  Frau  Bullen.  It  was  an  infamous  hole, 
only  suited  to  the  Germans  who  frequented  it. 
His  bed  had  not  been  aired,  and  that  wretched 
plumeau  was  always  falling  off.  Then  the  snow- 
storms had  come  and  kept  him  a  prisoner,  with 
nothing  to  look  at  but  the  cheerful  smoke  of  the 
Hotel  Royal  in  the  distance.  And  the  only  man 
beside  himself  treated  him  as  if  he  were  a  bore — 
yes,  a  bore,  though  a  cultured  woman  like  Miss 
Blake — well,  he  didn't  mind  confessing  at  once 
that  he  had  missed  her.  But  she  was  a  fool  to 
have  driven  him  out  of  the  hotel,  and  he  was  a 
fool  to  go  back  again,  having  once  escaped. 
And  why  had  he  hidden  himself  in  the  Tannen- 
wald, where  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  think  of 
her?  That  confounded  snowstorm!  And  now 
he  was  on  his  way  back  to  her.  He  would  tell 
'33 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

her  frankly  that  he  cared  for  her,  but  he  was  too 
poor  to  marry;  that  he  valued  her  friendship  and 
companionship,  and  he  hoped  he  had  not  for- 
feited either  by  his  rudeness.  There  was  a 
mild  and  human  look  about  the  Professor  as  he 
shuffled  along,  swearing  because  he  had  to  make 
a  path  for  himself  through  the  snow. 

He  had  climbed  the  hill  down  which  Merridew 
and  Miss  Blake  had  raced,  and  he  was  hoping  to 
slip  unobserved  into  the  Hotel  Royal.  But  the 
hall  was  full  of  people.  Simplicity's  white  face 
stood  out  whiter  than  all  the  rest.  He  went 
instinctively  towards  it. 

"There  has  been  an  accident  "  she  said. 
"Miss  Blake — tobogganing.  I  feel  kind  of 
guilty.  I  made  her  toboggan.  Oh,  Professor, 
I  would  give  worlds  if  I  hadn't  laughed  at  her 
that  day  she  fell!" 

"Is  she  hurt?" 

Simplicity  did  not  recognise  his  voice. 

"They  said  she  was  dead." 

"My  God,  it  can't  be!"  he  cried.  "Killed 
tobogganing?  Miss  Blake  killed  tobogganing? 
It  can't  be!" 

Frau  Bullen  came  down  the  stairs,  carrying  a 
letter.  She  beckoned  the  Professor  into  the 
bureau  and  handed  him  the  letter.  She  sat 
down. 

"Isn't  it  dreadful,  Professor?"  she  panted. 
"And  nobody  knows  anything  about  her.  This 


Miss  Blake 

letter  to  you  was  on  her  table.     Perhaps  you 
should  open  it." 

"That  American  girl  said  she  was  dead." 

"We  don't  know;  Dr.  Engel  is  there  still. 
He  said  no  bones  were  broken — but —  You  see, 
she  was  tobogganing  down  the  ice-run  at  the 
Griinwald.  The  whole  length  of  the  run  had 
not  been  cleared  of  the  snow.  She  seems  to 
have  tobogganed  straight  into  the  drift,  and  to 
have  been  thrown  off.  Nobody  knows  how  long 
she  had  been  lying  in  the  deep  snow  when  they 
found  her.  She  was  brought  home  two  hours  ago. 
Engel  has  been  trying  artificial  respiration." 

The  Professor  turned  away  and  mechanically 
opened  the  letter  Frau  Bullen  had  given  him. 
He  read  it  through,  and  did  not  understand  that 
Miss  Blake  had  left  him  a  fortune  "in  case  of 
her  death." 

"Dead?  She  isn't  dead!  How  could  she  be 
dead?"  he  said,  hoarsely.  Frau  Bullen  shook 
her  head,  and  began  to  cry. 

The  Professor  pushed  past  her  to  the  door. 
The  people  in  the  hall  fell  to  right  and  left,  and 
did  not  speak  as  they  saw  his  face.  He  walked 
straight  into  Miss  Blake's  room.  She  was  on 
the  bed,  Dr.  Engel  and  Philippa  and  a  nurse 
with  her. 

Engel  looked  up,  and  made  a  sign  for  silence. 

"She  is  asleep.  She  will  do  now,"  he  said,  in 
a  low  voice. 

'35 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

The  Professor  looked  vaguely  from  the  Doctor 
to  Philippa,  who  smiled  and  nodded  at  him ;  then 
he  tottered  into  a  chair  and  bowed  his  head  on 
the  table. 

"Let  us  go  away,"  said  Philippa,  softly. 

Dr.  Engel  followed  her  into  her  sitting-room. 
He  walked  to  the  table,  and  turned  over  the 
books  there.  Then  he  glanced  round  at  Philippa. 
Her  mouth  was  still  trembling,  but  she  tried  to 
smile. 

"The  poor  old  Professor!  he  is  a  dear!"  she 
said. 

"I  hope  he  won't  wake  her,"  said  Engel,  try- 
ing not  to  smile. 

A  shred  of  paper  fluttered  out  of  the  book  he 
had  in  his  hand.  He  picked  it  up.  "A  valuable 
bookmark,  Miss  Joy." 

"Yes,  it  is  valuable,"  she  said,  drily.  "Don't 
you  recognise  your  own  writing,  Dr.  Engel?" 

But  Engel  had  already  seen  the  "Philippa 
Alcestis"  on  the  paper.  "I  didn't  know  trifles 
interested  you,"  he  said,  coldly. 

"It  isn't  a  trifle,"  she  answered.  "I  want  you 
to  tell  me  what  it  means." 

Alcestis   was   the  wife   of   Admetus,   whom 
Hercules  brought  from  the  dead." 

"I  know  that,"  she  said,  impatiently.  "But 
why  Philippa  Alcestis?" 

"The  Professor  must  have  got  over  his  emo- 


136 


Miss  Blake 

tion  by  this.  I  will  return  to  my  patient,"  said 
Engel. 

"No,"  said  Philippa,  quietly.  She  stood 
before  him,  her  face  set  with  a  strange  determina- 
tion, her  eyes  grave  and  steady. 

"Dr.  Engel,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  you 
had  in  your  mind  when  you  wrote  that  name?" 

Engel  returned  her  gaze  by  one  equally  fixed, 
but  the  lines  on  his  face  grew  rigid  as  he  looked 
at  the  girl.  There  was  a  long  silence. 

"I  want  to  know."    Philippa's  voice  was  iron. 

"It  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  a  man  can  tell." 
He  spoke  very  quietly.  His  voice  was  iron,  too. 

"You  may  tell  me,"  Philippa  said. 

Engel  walked  across  the  room,  and  stood  with 
his  back  to  her  examining  a  picture.  Ought  he 
to  tell  her?  Would  it  not  be  better  for  her  to 
understand? 

"Dr.  Engel — "  He  turned  round.  The  pur- 
pose on  her  face  had  strengthened. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me,"  she  said. 

"If  you  will  know — "  he  began,  and  stopped. 

Philippa  broke  the  long  silence:  "Yes,  Dr. 
Engel." 

"I  had  this  in  my  mind,"  he  said,  speaking 
rapidly;  "that  the  girl  Philippa  was  herself  Love, 
to  me  come  back  from  the  grave  in  which  she 
had  been  lying.  And  I  wrote  for  her  some 
verses — " 


'37 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Yes?"  said  Philippa  again,  but  now  voice  and 
eyes  were  soft. 

Engel  dropped  his  eyes  from  hers.  They 
moved  him  against  his  will. 

"Then  I  tore  up  the  verses." 

"Why?" 

He  drew  himself  up,  and  stood  straight  before 
her,  his  face  strong  again. 

"Because — because  —  Love  had  not  —  come 
back." 

Philippa's  fingers  interlocked.  She  paused, 
hesitating;  then  she  lifted  her  face  with  a  proud 
light  on  it. 

"I  think  you  were  wrong.  Love  has  come 
back." 

Her  eyes  leaped  to  his  and  held  them.  Engel 
could  not  fail  to  understand.  An  answering 
light  flickered  an  instant  on  his  face,  went  out, 
and  left  it  dark. 

"No,"  he  said,  sternly.  "Love  has  not  come 
back.  It  betrayed  me  once.  I  saw  it  in  a 
woman's  eyes,  as  I  see  it  now.  She  was  false. 
Love  has  ruined  my  life — " 

"No,  no!"  Philippa  cried.  "It  didn't  ruin  it. 
It  has  made  it  what  it  is,  strong  and  noble  and 
unselfish.  Oh,  you  can't  tell  how  fine  your  life 
is!  And  it  is  so  pathetic,  so  lonely.  Look,  Dr. 
Engel ;  I  wrote  some  verses,  too.  May  I  show 
them?  There — see  how  you  look  to  me!" 

She  opened  her  blotting-pad  and  took  up  a 
138 


Miss  Blake 

sheet  of  paper.  "It  was  in  the  snowstorm  yes- 
terday," she  went  on,  excitedly.  "The  whole 
valley  was  dead;  not  a  single  creature  moved  in 
it,  not  a  sleigh,  not  a  dog.  And  the  snow  fell 
and  fell  and  fell.  And  then  in  that  awful 
storm  I  saw  you  plunging  through  the  snow, 
knee- deep;  and  I  knew  you  were  going  across 
the  valley  to  see  poor  Miss  Lindsay.  The  snow 
lay  round  the  rim  of  your  hat — like  an  aureole. 
I  knew  you  were  one  of  God's  saints,  and  I 
wrote  this." 

Her  voice  broke  as  she  finished,  tears  were  in 
her  eyes.  She  handed  the  paper  to  Engel. 

He  took  it  from  her,  and  the  words  danced 
before  him  through  a  mist. 

Engel  slowly  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket.  His  face  was  very  white. 

Philippa's  eyes,  fastened  on  him,  saw  the  ice 
that  had  frozen  it,  and  she  understood. 

"It  is  time  I  go  back  to  my  patient,"  he  said. 

All  the  light  had  faded  out  of  the  girl's  face. 
She  made  a  sudden  step  forward. 

"Dr.  Engel,"  she  said,  "you  won't  let  me 
love  you,  but  let  me  help  you.  Let  me  take  a 
little  of  your  work  from  you.  Not  the  medical 
work,  of  course,  but  the  nursing  and  the  sym- 
pathy and  the  time  you  give  to  your  patients." 
She  smiled,  though  her  lips  were  white,  and  held 
out  her  hand.  "Will  you  let  me  be  your  helper?" 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Engel  affected  not  to  see  her  hand. 

"I  must  really  go  now,"  he  said,  and  brushed 
past  her.  At  the  door  he  paused  and  looked 
back. 

"You  make  very  good  verses.     Good-bye.' 

The  voice  was  cynical,  but  she  had  seen  the 
look  in  his  eyes. 


140 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MR.    JERNINGHAM 

Mr.  Jerningham  came  into  the  salle-a-manger, 
gave  a  weary  look  at  the  tables,  then  refused  the 
chair  that  the  waiter  had  drawn  out  for  him. 

"I  will  sit  with  my  back  to  the  light." 

His  voice  was  thin  and  high.  It  cut  the 
silence  like  a  fine  blade.  His  face  was  melan- 
choly; there  was  a  plaintive  droop  in  his  eyes. 
He  held  his  head  on  one  side,  as  if  his  slight 
shoulders  were  not  strong  enough  to  support  the 
weight.  A  delicate  perfume  from  the  violets  in 
his  buttonhole  followed  him. 

"What  a  funny,  funny  man!"  Miss  Busybody 
said,  in  a  whisper  that  penetrated  to  every  cor- 
ner of  the  room.  "Do  you  see  him,  Philippa? 
Look,  Uncle  Rob !  Why  does  he  have  long  hair 
and  talk  like  an  old  woman?" 

"Be  quiet,  you  little  demon!"  Major  Sander- 
son laughed. 

"Miss  Busybody,"  said  Philippa,  quickly,  to 
divert  the  child's  attention,  "I  saw  somebody 
awfully  nice  this  morning.  Guess  who  it  was?" 

"Dr.  Engel, "  said  Miss  Busybody. 

"Nice?  Dr.  Engel?  Why,  if  a  cow  was  round, 
141 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

I  guess  she'd  eat  that  man,  he's  so  green."  Sim- 
plicity's accent  flavoured  Miss  Busybody's  curi- 
osity. 

"Dr.  Engel  is  not  green,  he  is  red;  and  so  is 
Philippa, "  Miss  Busybody  said. 

"No;  it  was  Sonnie  Baker  that  I  went  to  see," 
said  Philippa,  hastily.  "He  is  sitting  up  again." 

"I  know,"  Miss  Busybody  nodded;  "and  Miss 
Baker  says  me  and  Boykin  can  go  to  tea  with 
him  soon." 

Boykin  was  a  recent  arrival  in  the  Mittenthal. 
He  was  only  five  years  old,  and  he  had  consoled 
Miss  Busybody  in  Sonnie's  absence. 

Mr.  Jerningham  having  found  a  place  to  his 
mind,  laid  a  book  beside  his  plate,  and  began 
his  lunch. 

"Mercy  on  us,  he  is  reading  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning!"  Simplicity  whispered.  "I  presume 
he  wants  us  to  take  him  for  a  poetical  genius." 

The  Professor  looked  up  from  his  discussion 
with  Miss  Blake.  He  was  in  a  good  temper. 
He  beamed  at  her  across  a  well-starched  collar 
and  smart  tie. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  Miss  Impertinence,  he 
will  take  you  for  what  you  are";  he  addressed 
Simplicity. 

"He  may  take  me  for  better  or  for  worse,  I 
don't  mind,"  she  laughed. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  you  should  not  jest  on  such 
subjects.  We  never  know  what  will  happen," 
142 


Mr.  Jerningham 

said  Miss  Blake,  who  had  reappeared  at  table 
that  day,  still  weak  from  her  accident.  Then 
she  blushed  very  much,  and  asked  Philippa  hur- 
riedly if  she  knew  the  name  of  the  stranger. 

Between  each  course  Mr.  Jerningham  read  a 
poem,  which,  however,  did  not  seem  to  affect 
his  appetite.  When  the  meal  was  over  he 
walked  drearily  to  the  end  of  the  table,  where 
Major  Sanderson  sat.  Miss  Busybody  saw  him 
coming,  and  ran  round  to  Philippa  and  hid  her 
face  on  her  lap.  "I'm  drefful  frightened  of 
him."  Her  voice  came  muffled  from  the  folds 
of  Philippa's  gown. 

"I  had  better  tell  you  that  you  must  take  that 
child  to  the  other  table,  or  I  must  move  my 
seat,"  Jerningham  said. 

Major  Sanderson  stared  at  him  haughtily. 

"It  is  your  child,  I  think?"  Jerningham  went 
on.  "I  object  to  children  in  hotels,  or  at  least 
at  meals.  She  must  leave  the  table  or  I  must. 
She  called  attention  to  my  appearance." 

"But  is  that  unusual?"  Simplicity  said, 
suavely. 

"I  came  here  to  avoid  observation,"  he  said, 
sighing. 

"If  that's  what  you  want,  you  go  to  work  the 
wrong  way,"  she  smiled.  "The  minute  folks 
set  eyes  on  you  they  want  to  know  more  about 
you." 

"I  have  an  aversion  to  children,"  he  said, 
H3 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

pathetically;    "my    nerves  are    shattered,    and 
they  disturb  me." 

"Most  all  of  us  are  invalids,"  said  Simplicity; 
"but  we're  delighted  to  have  a  cunning  little 
thing  like  Miss  Busybody  playing  round.  She 
don't  disturb  anybody." 

"She  disturbs  me;  she  must  go,  or  I  must." 

Philippa  took  Miss  Busybody's  hand  and  led 
her  away  from  the  discussion.  The  face  Sim- 
plicity turned  to  Jerningham  was  as  red  as  her 
dress. 

"No  one  here  wishes  to  keep  you,"  she  blazed 
out.  She  was  a  Kansas  girl,  and  she  had  the 
sharpness  of  the  type.  She  turned  to  Major 
Sanderson. 

"Don't  wait  for  Karl.  Let  me  help  you  to 
the  balcony,  Major  Sanderson." 

Jerningham  stared.  He  had  not  seen  any 
signs  of  illness  in  the  Major's  sunburnt,  cheer- 
ful face.  Now  he  saw  that  he  was  a  very  sick 
man,  walking  with  great  difficulty,  even  with  the 
help  of  Simplicity's  strong  arm.  Her  voice, 
strong,  too,  accompanied  Major  Sanderson. 
"He  may  take  me  for  what  he  likes;  I  take  him 
for  a  poor  little  woman-insect,  with  his  nerves 
and  his  aversions — " 

Jerningham  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  waited 
till  they  had   got  out  of  the   room.     Then   he 
found  his  new  snow-shoes  and  his  overcoat,  and 
went  out  to  see  the  village. 
144 


Mr.  Jerningham 

If  anything  could  have  charmed  him,  this  glory 
of  frost  and  snow  and  ice  and  sun  must  have 
done  it,  for  the  Mittenthal  was  like  an  open  lily 
in  the  sun.  But  he  saw  only  an  Alpine  village, 
less  dreary  than  he  had  expected  it  to  be.  The 
road  was  gay  with  people  strolling  in  the  sun. 
Their  coloured  sunshades  and  bright  dresses 
warmed  the  snow.  The  band  outside  the  Kur- 
haus  was  playing,  an  undertone  to  the  hubbub 
of  tongues — French,  German,  Portuguese,  Ital- 
ian, Russian — that  echoed  through  the  garden. 
The  people  that  lay  on  the  chaises  longues  in  the 
balconies  did  not  look  ill.  The  place  was  very 
cheerful  indeed.  But  the  people  in  his  hotel 
were  intolerable  —  that  sick  man  and  the  child 
and  that  American.  She  looked  very  smart  in 
her  stylish  red  gown,  but  she  was  awfully  vulgar. 
Would  any  English  girl  have  spoken  so?  And 
he  was  an  invalid,  at  the  mercy  of  people  like 
that!  Tears  gathered  in  his  eyes.  He  was  very 
sorry  for  himself.  In  the  briskness  and  gaiety 
round  him  he  had  been  walking  vigorously.  Now 
he  drooped  again,  and  took  himself  plaintively 
back  to  the  hotel. 

He  did  not  move  his  seat  at  dinner.  It  was 
well  placed  for  the  courses,  he  had  noticed. 

Passing  Simplicity's  chair  as  he  left  the  room, 
he  dropped  his  visiting-card.  She  might  pick  it 
up,  and  see  whom  she  had  insulted.  Americans 
were  quick  to  recognise  celebrities.  The  waiter 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

handed  him  the  card  before  he  reached  the  door. 
He  sighed  as  he  took  it.  Why  were  waiters 
always  so  officious? 

He  went  to  his  bedroom  and  threw  open  the 
balcony  window.  The  stillness  of  the  night 
made  the  darkness  more  intense,  but  dark  as  it 
was,  the  pale  glimmer  of  the  snow  flitted  ghost- 
like about  the  valley.  Jerningham  could  almost 
have  persuaded  himself  that  he  saw  mysterious 
forms  passing.  He  felt  a  new  sensation  of  awe, 
and  noted  it. 

"What  a  setting  for  music!"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "This  place  is  built  on  grand  lines.  The 
full  sweep  of  this  silence  is  magnificent.  I  won- 
der how  it  would  tone  in  with  the  violin?" 

He  brought  his  violin,  and  standing  on  the 
balcony,  touched  the  strings  lightly. 

At  the  first  notes  Miss  Blake,  who  was  lying 
on  her  own  balcony,  started  up  with  a  pleased 
cry.  "It  must  be  Sonnie  playing  again!"  Then 
she  knew  that  the  touch  was  not  Sonnie's.  She 
lay  listening  in  quiet  content.  After  the  storm 
of  the  day  before  there  was  a  great  calm  in  her 
life.  She  had  come  back  to  consciousness  to 
find  Love  waiting  for  her  with  living  eyes.  She 
was  still  brooding  over  the  wonder  of  it.  The 
valley  seemed  full  of  mysterious  forms  that  were 
glad;  she  could  see  their  faces  shining.  In  the 
balcony  below  her,  Major  Sanderson  was  look- 
ing at  the  same  scene,  and  seeing  in  it  the 
146 


Mr.  Jerningham 

solemn  troops  of  his  years  passing.  The  pro- 
cession would  soon  end  now.  The  stillness  in 
the  valley  was  so  intense  he  could  almost  hear 
the  march  of  their  feet.  There  were  people 
lying  on  all  the  balconies,  but  there  was  no 
sound  of  gay  chatter.  It  was  the  hour  when 
those  who  have  died  in  the  Mittenthal  return, 
and  the  wind  of  their  garments  chills  the  faces 
of  the  living — when  people  see  the  angel  with 
the  drawn  sword  who  guards  the  gate  of  the 
valley,  and  remember  that  only  the  strong-armed 
can  wrestle  with  him.  It  was  the  hour  when  the 
voice  of  one  they  call  Death  is  heard  from  the 
mountains,  as  from  mighty  mosques  summoning 
to  prayer. 

Jerningham  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  new 
influence  in  his  music.  He  had  spent  the  day 
without  hearing  the  deep  note  that  life  struck  in 
the  Mittenthal.  He  had  not  seen  the  tragedy 
that  played  itself  out  with  clash  of  cymbal  and 
beat  of  drum  in  every  seat  at  table  d'hote.  He 
knew  nothing  of  the  depths  of  agony,  the  dark 
hopelessness  that  the  laughter  covered.  "Let 
us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die,"  had 
not  been  said  to  him.  He  had  had  no  soul  to 
hear  the  language  of  inarticulate  eyes.  But  all 
this  was  in  his  music,  and  he  was  dimly  aware 
of  it. 

Some  one  joined  Miss  Blake  on  her  balcony. 
"I  wonder  who  it  is  playing, "  Jerningham  heard. 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

He  touched  the  violin  very  lightly,  so  as  to 
catch  the  reply.  "I  presume  it's  the  new  ar- 
rival. I  saw  a  violin-case  among  his  luggage." 

"I  wish  he  was  the  kind  of  man  one  could  ask 
to  play  to  Sonnie  Baker.  Miss  Baker  told  me 
Sonnie  was  longing  for  some  music.  You  might 
ask  him,  my  dear." 

"Why,  Miss  Blake,  he  isn't  the  kind  of  man 
I'd  ask  to  tie  a  shoestring!  A  man*who  could 
snub  Miss  Busybody  ain't  likely  to  have  human- 
ity enough  to  play  for  a  sick  cat,  let  alone 
Sonnie.  He's  just  a  windbag  of  a  man,  and  I 
want  to  prick  him  all  the  time  and  let  the  wind 
out.  Besides,  Sonnie  wouldn't  thank  you  for 
music  like  that.  It's  cheap  compared  with  what 
Sonnie  himself  can  do." 

The  balcony  door  banged  as  Jerningham  went 
in.  His  playing  "cheap, "  when  he  was  a  maestro, 
a  man  of  European  reputation?  It  was  time 
some  one  put  a  stop  to  the  criticisms  of  ignorant 
persons.  There  should  be  a  penalty  for  defama- 
tion of  the  character  of  a  man's  art.  To  be 
disparaged  by  a  girl!  And  she  said  he  had  no 
humanity.  She  wouldn't  ask  him  to  play  for  this 
boy.  Well,  he  would  not  wait  to  be  asked.  He 
would  offer  to  play.  He  did  not  mind  spending 
ten  minutes  in  doing  it,  since  the  boy  was  musical. 

At  breakfast  next  morning,  while  he  pretended 
to  read,  he  listened  to  the  talk  round  him.     He 
wished  to  discover  which  was  Miss  Baker. 
148 


Mr.  Jerningham 

The  face  of  the  conversation  was  disfigured 
with  medical  terms  —  microbe  and  bacteria, 
phthisis  and  carditis.  Major  Sanderson  said 
cheerfully  that  his  temperature  was  a  hundred 
and  one;  another  man  gave  the  result  of  some 
microscopical  examination  or  other.  The  Pro- 
fessor shouted  across  the  table  that  Babette 
slept  in  flannel  with  the  window  wide  open. 

Jerningham  had  intended  to  speak  about  his 
loss  of  appetite  as  an  interesting  subject,  but 
he  remained  silent. 

Simplicity  Baldwin  camefin,  and  spoke  to  the 
lady  beside  him:  "How  is  Sonnie  this  morning, 
Miss  Baker?" 

"Better,  I  am  thankful  to  say.  Dr.  Engel 
says  he  may  get  up  again,  but  he  is  not  to  touch 
his  violin  yet.  Poor  Sonnie  is  dreadfully  disap- 
pointed. " 

Jerningham  stopped  while  helping  himself  to 
honey.  "I  gather  that  the  boy  is  ill,  and  fond 
of  music.  I  shall  be  glad  to  spare  ten  minutes 
to  play  for  him.  I  am  Horace  Jerningham." 

The  name  conveyed  nothing  to  Miss  Baker. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  hesitated.  "But — 
my  nephew  is  very  clever — and  he  is  naturally 
extremely  fastidious." 

Simplicity's  eyes  twinkled  delightedly. 

Jerningham  straightened  himself. 

"Perhaps   you   did   not    understand.      I    am 
Horace  Jerningham,  the  violinist." 
149 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Miss  Baker  flushed. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you.  Shall  I  say  you  will 
come  in  this  morning?  My  nephew's  number  is 
ten." 

Jerningham  finished  helping  himself  to  honey. 
Suddenly  Simplicity  addressed  him. 

"I  feel  real  mean  at  something  I  said  about 
you  yesterday.  I  ask  your  pardon.  You're  a 
stranger,  and  I  presume  you  would  like  to  see 
some  of  the  local  sights.  I  am  going  into  the 
Grunwasser  valley  at  midnight.  Perhaps  you 
would  like  to  go,  too." 

"You  have  not  said  what  you  are  going  to 
see,"  he  said,  pleasantly.  The  girl  had  a  fine 
face  and  an  open,  generous  look  in  her  eyes,  and 
she  had  owned  she  had  been  unjust  to  him. 

"To  see  the  Todten-Volk — the  dead  people, 
you  know,"  she  answered.  "The  peasants  say 
if  you  go  to  a  certain  spot  in  the  valley  at  mid- 
night, you  will  see  all  the  dead  folk  pass  in  pro- 
cession. They  wear  quaint  old  clothes,  and 
their  faces  are  covered — all  but  the  last.  He 
turns  his  face  towards  you,  and  it  is  the  face  of 
some  one  who  will  die  this  year." 

"Grim  enough,"  said  Jerningham. 

"Why,  of  course  it's  grim.  It  gives  you 
thrills.  Why,  the  last  face  may  be  your  own." 

"But  does  everybody  see  it?"  said  Jerning- 
ham. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.      "But,  at  any 


Mr.  Jerningham 

rate,  it  will  be  a  sensation  to  see  the  valley  at 
midnight." 

"I  should  like  to  go  with  you,"  said  Jerning- 
ham. 

Two  hours  after,  Jerningham  took  his  violin 
to  No.  10.  Sonnie  was  on  the  sofa,  a  thin 
shadow  of  the  boy  who  had  shouted  "Death  and 
Victory!"  that  day  in  the  snowstorm.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  have  burnt  up  the  rest  of  his  face. 
He  looked  very  small  and  eager  and  childish. 

"You  have  a  Strad!  a  real  Strad!"  he  said,  as 
he  saw  Jerningham.  "Imagine  having  a  real 
Strad!  Let  me  see  it. " 

"It  is  a  very  valuable  instrument.  I  never  let 
children  handle  it,"  Jerningham  said. 

"You  don't  call  me  a  child,  do  you?"  Sonnie 
laughed.  "Don't  be  afraid;  I  know  how  to 
hold  a  violin." 

Jerningham  noticed  that  the  hand  he  held  out 
was  shaking,  and  he  grudgingly  gave  up  the 
violin.  He  was  reassured  at  the  reverence  with 
which  Sonnie  took  it.  His  very  look  was  a 
caress. 

At  last  the  boy  returned  it,  and  fell  back  on 
his  cushions.  "If  that  Strad  was  mine,  I'd 
never  want  anything  else  all  my  life,"  he  sighed. 
"Play  something,  will  you?" 

Jerningham  did  not  like  the  tone,  but  Sonnie's 
eyes  could  not  be  denied.  With  an  infinite  con- 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

descension  he  leisurely  played  a  few  bars. 
Sonnie's  face  reminded  him  that  his  listener  was 
fastidious,  and  he  executed  a  difficult  move- 
ment; but  the  boy's  face  remained  blank.  Jer- 
ningham  heard  his  disappointed  sigh. 

"Poor  little  chap!  it's  beyond  him,"  he 
thought;  "I'll  try  something  simpler."  But 
though  he  went  from  study  to  study,  Sonnie 
remained  silent  and  unimpressed. 

At  last,  piqued,  Jerningham  put  out  all  his 
power  in  an  intricate  Brahms,  then  laid  down  his 
bow.  Sonnie  struggled  to  his  feet  and  took  up 
the  violin.  "Let  me  try." 

An  uncertain  note  answered  his  uncertain 
touch.  Vexed,  Jerningham  walked  to  the  win- 
dow. 

Sonnie  stood  rapt,  as  if  listening  to  something 
that  no  other  listener  could  hear. 

A  mome'nt  after  Jerningham  swung  round. 
Sonnie's  bow  was  sweeping  the  strings.  A  wild, 
unearthly  melody  sounded.  It  filled  the  room 
with  the  tramp  of  a  mighty  army. 

Jerningham  stood,  his  eyes  fastened  on  Son- 
nie, holding  his  breath,  not  daring  to  move  lest 
he  should  miss  one  footfall  of  the  procession. 
He  could  almost  see  the  long,  line  of  mysterious 
forms  tramping  to  the  music.  Suddenly  a  string 
broke. 

Sonnie    turned    his   pale  face  to  him,  handed 
him  the  violin,  and  fell  weeping  on  the  sofa. 
152 


Mr.  Jerningham 

Jerningham  did  not  speak.  He  was  not  con- 
cerned for  the  boy.  He  stood  biting  his  lips, 
wondering  what  quality  it  was  in  Sonnie's  music 
that  his  own  lacked. 

That  evening  he  did  not  sit  silent  at  dinner. 
Miss  Baker  was  quite  ready  to  talk  to  him  about 
Sonnie,  and  some  of  the  other  people  were  curi- 
ous to  hear  about  his  proposed  expedition  into 
the  valley  to  see  the  Todten-Volk. 

Soon  after  eleven  he  went  into  the  hall  to 
meet  Simplicity.  She  and  her  friend,  Mrs. 
Royston,  were  there  waiting  for  him.  Mrs. 
Royston  was  a  young  wife  who  lived  in  a  chalet 
at  Pitzen,  Simplicity  told  him.  Both  women 
were  excited.  Mrs.  Royston  giggled  foolishly. 

"You  mustn't  tell  my  husband  of  this  esca- 
pade," she  said.  "He  would  not  have  let  me 
come  if  he  had  known  of  it.  I  told  him  Frau 
Bullen  had  asked  me  to  spend  the  night  at  the 
Royal.  It  is  true,  you  know." 

"I  hope  you  won't  do  yourself  any  harm," 
said  Simplicity,  sobering,  and  glancing  anxiously 
at  Mrs.  Royston. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  my  dear  child;  I  shall  do 
much  more  harm  if  I  stay  at  home  brooding  over 
the  future.  I  have  a  perfect  horror  of  death. 
I  want  to  know  if — " 

"But  suppose  we  do  see  the  dead  folk?"  said 
Simplicity. 

"We  shan't  see  anything  if  we  waste  any  more 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

time,  that's  certain.  Come  along,"  Mrs.  Roy- 
ston  cried.  ";  • 

Jerningham  followed  them  into  the  road. 
The  electric  light  still  flared  outside  the  hotel, 
throwing  shadows  on  the  snow.  The  hotel  was 
asleep.  A  deathly  silence  held  the  valley,  but 
for  the  deep  voice  of  the  Griinwasser.  "We 
shall  have  to  cross  the  river,"  Simplicity  whis- 
pered. It  seemed  difficult  to  speak  naturally  in 
the  silence. 

The  night  was  black  with  clouds.  Not  a  star 
twinkled.  A  thick  mist  swathed  the  valley.  It 
clung  like  a  chilly  sheet  to  their  faces. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  wise  to  go?"  Jerningham 
asked. 

"Yes,  yes!"  Mrs.  Royston  said.  "It  is  not 
far.  We  cross  the  river,  and  go  to  a  ravine  a  lit- 
tle way  up  the  valley." 

"We  ought  not  to  talk,"  said  Simplicity. 

She  led  the  way,  following  the  beaten  snow 
of  the  path.  Her  snowshoes  made  no  sound; 
she  went,  a  dim  and  noiseless  figure,  through  the 
mist  and  the  midnight.  Mrs.  Royston  followed 
close  behind,  noiseless,  too.  Jerningham,  mak- 
ing the  third  of  the  file,  felt  the  mystery  of  the 
mute,  dark  figures  passing  silently  through  the 
black  night.  He  wondered  why  he  had  come. 
The  snow  and  the  mist  and  the  silence  were 
gruesome.  If  it  had  been  possible,  he  would 
have  turned  back  and  left  the  women  to  go  on 


Mr.  Jerningham 

alone.  There  was  something  uncanny  in  the 
breathlessness  of  Mrs.  Royston's  swift,  stealthy 
movements.  Simplicity  was  the  only  one  of  the 
three  who  walked  naturally.  The  free  poise  of 
her  head  lent  Jerningham  courage.  He  fixed  his 
eyes  on  her,  and  sought  to  get  away  from  the 
consciousness  of  tension  in  Mrs.  Royston's  atti- 
tude. 

They  had  passed  the  last  chalet;  the  Griin- 
wasser  moaned  behind  them.  They  were  close 
to  the  pines  that  sloped  up  Pitz  Jakob  and  laid 
a  belt  of  deeper  night  round  the  midnight.  The 
silence  deepened  as  the  valley  narrowed  and  the 
mist  closed  round  the  three  shadows.  It  wound 
them  round  and  round  until  even  consciousness 
was  bound  in  damp  bands.  The  chill  lay  on 
Jerningham's  thoughts.  He  had  expected  to 
see  other  people  in  the  valley — the  peasants,  or 
visitors  curious  like  themselves  to  see  the  pro- 
cession of  the  dead  folk;  but  not  a  voice  echoed, 
not  another  living  form  was  visible.  Simplicity 
led  the  way  in  a  silence  that  every  minute  be- 
came more  ghastly.  It  seemed  to  the  man  that 
they  had  been  walking  forever  in  mute  proces- 
sion through  the  great  shadow  of  the  night.  He 
could  not  remember  the  time  when  he  had  not 
taken  those  soundless  steps  over  the  livid  snow, 
feeling  the  ravine  closing  in  upon  him,  struggling 
in  the  slimy  bands  of  the  mist. 

"Stop!"  said  Simplicity,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Her  voice  seemed  to  have  arrested  even  life. 
The  three  stood  frozen.  The  deep  stroke  of 
midnight  came  down  the  valley.  Twelve  beat 
out  loud  and  clamorous,  then  twelve  again, 
dying  faintly.  The  air  trembled  round  Mrs. 
Royston's  shudder. 

As  the  strokes  died,  another  sound  woke  in 
Jerningham's  mind — the  first  note  of  the  music 
Sonnie  had  played  that  day.  One  by  one  the 
notes  came,  muffled,  like  a  dim,  veiled  proces- 
sion passing  by.  They  sounded  louder  as  they 
drew  near,  and  Jerningham's  eyes  froze  with 
terror.  Every  note  was  a  ghost,  growing  larger 
and  larger;  every  ghost  wore  a  human  shape, 
cloaked  and  cowled.  A  gleam  of  snow  lighted 
the  feet. 

"The  Todten-Volk!"  dropped  from  Jerning- 
ham's dry  lips. 

One  by  one  they  passed  him,  swathed  in  mist 
and  midnight,  stepping  to  the  tramp  of  wizard 
music 

His  gaze  could  not  move  away  from  the  wan 
procession.  The  faces  were  hidden,  the  heads 
bowed. 

As  the  last  ghost  passed,  Jerningham  stag- 
gered back.  Sonnie's  face  had  turned  to  him. 
It  gleamed  dimly  from  a  lifted  cowl. 

Mrs.  Royston's  shrieks  sounded  far  away,  then 
nearer  and  louder,  until  Jerningham  heard  the 
whole  valley  crying  out. 
156 


Mr.  Jerningham 

"For  God's  sake!"  His  voice  stumbled  and 
fell. 

"Be  quiet,  Mrs.  Royston;  please  be  quiet," 
Simplicity  was  saying.  "You  will  hurt  yourself. 
There  is  nothing!  Don't  you  see?  Twelve 
o'clock  has  struck,  and  not  a  single  ghost  has 
passed." 

She  had  thrown  her  arms  round  Mrs.  Royston, 
and  now  she  shook  her  gently.  "Be  quiet,  you 
mad  woman.  I'm  real  sorry  you  ever  persuaded 
me  to  come  with  you." 

"But  I  saw!  but  I  saw!"  Mrs.  Royston 
screamed. 

Jerningham  put  his  hand  "on  her  shoulder,  in  a 
quieting  pressure.  "What  did  you  see?"  he  said, 
in  a  muffled  voice. 

"A  long  line  of  figures, "  she  gasped,  "wrapped 
in  white." 

"Bunkum!"  said  Simplicity,  vigorously.  "I 
stared  as  hard  as  I  could,  and  I  saw  nothing 
but  mist.  Come  away;  time  we  were  going 
back." 

"No!  no!"  Mrs.  Royston  gasped.  "I  saw  the 
face  of  the  last,  and — and  it  was  my  husband's. 
I  saw  him  quite  plainly.  He  had  a — a  baby  in 
his  arms.  His  hair  was  wet  and  dripping." 

"Goodness!  If  there's  a  healthy  creature  in 
this  valley,  it's  Mr.  Royston.  He  isn't  going  to 
die  this  year.  Come  along,  Mrs.  Royston;  at 
any  rate,  you  are  safe." 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  said  Jerningham,  in 
a  queer  voice. 

"It's  all  superstition,"  said  Simplicity.  "The 
peasants  say  that  when  the  Todten-Volk  go  by 
you  see  the  face  of  the  last  man  only,  and  it  is 
the  face  of  a  living  man  who  will  die  during  the 
year.  But  I'm  real  disappointed  there  was 
nothing  to  see.  Now  then,  quick  march  back 
again!" 

They  set  out  at  a  sharp  pace,  Simplicity  talk- 
ing loudly  all  the  time.  When  she  saw  that 
neither  of  the  others  would  talk,  she  began  to 
sing. 

The  night  waked;  her  voice,  sweet  and  strong, 
clove  the  mist  and  soared  through  the  great 
shadows.  Where  the  clouds  parted  a  star  shone. 

The  next  day  Jerningham  spent  an  hour  with 
Sonnie.  He  had  taken  his  violin  to  play  for  the 
boy,  but  he  was  the  listener  while  Sonnie  played. 
There  was  something  in  Sonnie's  music  that 
showed  his  own  art  crude  and  lifeless,  and  made 
him  recognise  his  limitations.  It  also  kept  alive 
in  his  mind  his  midnight  experience.  He  could 
not  look  at  Sonnie  without  seeing  the  last  face  in 
the  procession  of  the  Todten-Volk;  and  while 
he  was  not  superstitious,  he  could  not  get  away 
from  the  thought  that  the  boy  was  doomed. 
The  pity  of  it  seized  him.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  Jerningham  found  his  interest  centred 
158 


Mr.  Jerningham 

in  something  outside  himself.  When  it  was 
necessary  once  to  sit  up  with  Sonnie,  he  begged 
to  be  allowed  to  do  it.  That  night's  watch 
made  him  Sonnie's  friend. 

After  that  Jerningham  was  always  in  Sonnie's 
room.  The  boy  could  not  bear  to  see  the  Strad 
go;  and  when  Jerningham  was  not  playing  him- 
self, he  lent  the  violin  to  Sonnie,  and  sat  listen- 
ing to  him.  Jerningham  found  a  whimsical 
pleasure  in  playing  second  fiddle  to  the  boy. 
He  had  recognised  Sonnie's  genius.  In  a  fort- 
night the  man  had  changed.  His  air  had 
become  less  weary;  there  was  a  spark  in  his  eye. 
He  had  lost  some  of  his  affectations.  The  vio- 
lets were  given  every  day  to  Sonnie.  He  forgot 
to  read  poetry  at  table.  There  were  always 
inquiries  for  Sonnie  to  be  answered.  Simplicity, 
who  was  very  friendly,  laughed  at  his  long  hair. 
He  came  back  from  the  hairdresser  cropped  and 
in  his  right  mind. 

"There  is  nothing  wrong  with  you,"  Dr. 
Engel  said  to  him.  "Go  back  to  your  work." 

Jerningham  shook  his  head.  "If  I  go  away, 
my  violin  goes,  too,  and  that  would  break  Son- 
nie's heart." 

"Then  leave  him  the  violin." 

"Give  it  him  altogether!  You  don't  know 
what  you  are  saying.  One  doesn't  give  a  Strad 
to  a  boy!" 

"Ah,  to  be  sure!     The  genius  is  only  a  boy." 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"It's  the  only  instrument  I  can  use.  You 
might  as  well  tell  me  to  give  up  my  art  alto- 
gether. If  I  gave  away  my  Strad,  the  only  thing 
left  to  me  would  be  to  conduct  an  orchestra." 

"No,"  Engel  said,  drily;  "you  might  conduct 
an  omnibus." 

Jerningham  went  off  in  a  rage.  Fortunately, 
he  was  master  of  his  time.  He  would  not  go 
away  till  Sonnie  was  stronger  and  better  able  to 
console  himself  for  the  loss  of  the  Strad.  Sud- 
denly the  memory  of  the  procession  of  the  dead 
folk  returned  to  him.  He  shook  it  off.  There 
was  nothing  in  it;  the  fancy  of  excited  nerves. 
Besides,  Sonnie  would  get  well  again.  He  was 
one  of  the  procession  of  people  passing  through 
the  valley  from  death  to  life.  One  of  these  days 
the  pathetic  hopefulness  would  shine  in  his  eyes; 
he  would  go  out  and  take  his  place  in  the  proces- 
sion and  march  gaily  with  the  best — from  death 
to  life. 

But  Jerningham  could  not  persuade  himself 
that  Sonnie's  place  was  not  last  in  the  proces- 
sion. Nothing  ever  banished  the  shadow  in  the 
boy's  eyes  but  the  violin. 

And  Sonnie  had  once  said  if  the  Strad  were 
his,  he  would  want  nothing  else  in  life. 

He  took  the  violin  and  went  to  No.  10. 

Sonnie  was  too  weak  to  sit  up.  He  lay  back 
on  his  pillows,  looking  very  white. 

"He  is  not    so  well,"   said   his  aunt.     "He 
160 


Mr.  Jerningham 

fainted  this  morning,  but  I  think  it  is  only  the 
fohn  wind;  it  always  tires  him."  She  looked 
anxiously  at  Sonnie. 

Jerningham's  eyes  followed  hers  to  the  boy's 
face. 

Sonnie  was  like  a  wreath  of  snow  that  the  fohn 
would  snatch  away  from  the  valley.  The  sun 
shone  on  the  windows,  but  a  new  shadow  had 
fallen  on  the  boy's  eyes. 

"You  look  so  tired,"  said  Jerningham;  "I 
won't  stay  now.  To-morrow  I  will  stay  longer, 
to  make  up." 

"To-morrow  is  my  birthday,"  Sonnie  smiled. 
"You  will  lend  me  the  Strad  all  day." 

Jerningham  carried  away  the  violin  with  a 
guilty  consciousness  that  it  was  Sonnie's  by 
right. 

The  boy's  face  haunted  him.  It  looked  out 
from  the  pillow  as  that  other  face  looked  at  him 
from  the  cowl.  If  he  could  only  make  up  his 
mind  to  give  the  violin  to  Sonnie! 

Sonnie's  eyes  followed  the  violin  as  Jerning- 
ham disappeared.  He  could  see  it  go  and  not 
regret  it.  There  seemed  so  little  to  wish  for  in 
life.  He  only  wanted  to  lie  still  and  watch  the 
sunset  creeping  up  the  bed.  When  the  bar  of 
light  touched  the  head  of  the  bed  the  sun  would 
sink. 

He  thought  dreamily  of  the  sunlighted  valley — 
the  great  sweep  of  the  golden  waves  that  flooded 
161 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

the   snow   and   ebbed   and    flowed   among    the 
mountains.     It  was  very  beautiful. 

He  had  grown  to  love  the  valley.  He  would 
be  content  to  remain  in  it  now;  to  listen  always, 
as  he  had  listened  on  the  day  of  the  snowstorm, 
to  the  grand  chords  of  the  chorale  that  echoed 
here  among  the  hills:  "Oh,  Life,  here  is  thy 
victory!" 

Yes,  the  victory  of  Life  was  here  in  the  valley 
where  Death  had  lost  his  sting,  where  one  might 
look  on  his  face  and  not  be  afraid,  where  one 
might  walk  through  the  shadow  and  fear  no  evil. 
He  smiled,  remembering  how  he  had  shouted 
"Death  and  Victory!"  the  day  he  had  carried 
Miss  Busybody.  If  he  had  had  any  voice  left 
now  for  a  shout,  it  would  be  "Life  and  Victory!" 
"I'll  tell  her  that  when  she  comes,"  he  said  to 
himself.  He  turned  his  head  feebly.  How 
heavy  it  had  become ! 

"Aunt,  I  want  to  see  Miss  Busybody." 
"I  think  not,  dear.     You  look  so  tired." 
"No,    I'm   better — quite   well.     You  go  and 
rest.      Let  her  stay  with  me." 

"I  donst  like  to  leave  you,  Sonnie. "     • 
"Yes,  please.    I  will  ring — when  I  want  you." 
Miss  Busybody  came  tiptoeing  in,  her  hands 
behind  her,  her  face  full  of  mystery. 

"Miss  Baker  says  I'm  to  send  you  to  sleep, 
and  then  call  her.     Guess  what  I've  got  here. " 
"I  can't;  I'm  sleepy." 
162 


Mr.  Jerningham 

"It's  a  secret;  it's  laurels.  But  you're  not  to 
know  till  to-morrow.  Philippa  and  me  boughted 
it  for  your  birthday.  She  said  flowers;  but  I 
'membered  you  said  you  wanted  laurels,  so  we 
got  a  wreath.  Do  you  think  you'll  like  it? 
Shall  I  see  if  it  fits?" 

She  climbed  on  the  bed  and  crowned  him  with 
the  laurel  wreath.  He  shivered,  feeling  the  cold 
of  the  leaves. 

"It's  beautiful,"  he  whispered.  That  strange 
faintness  was  coming  on  again. 

"Yes;  it  fits  you  boofully.  I'll  let  you  wear 
it  a  bit,  if  you  don't  tell  Philippa  I  showed  it 
you  too  soon." 

"I  won't  tell." 

The  cold  of  the  leaves  seemed  to  have  touched 
every  part  of  his  body;  or  was  it  the  chill  of  sun- 
set coming  on?  What  had  happened  to  him? 

"A  string  broke  then,"  he  muttered.  He 
felt  himself  falling,  and  he  clutched  at  the 
clothes  to  save  himself.  What  had  happened? 
Miss  Busybody,  sitting  beside  him,  seemed  to  be 
drifting  away.  He  could  not  breathe  for  Fifine's 
loud  purring.  He  roused  himself. 

"Don't  go — don't  go — " 

"I'm  not  going,"  said  Miss  Busybody,  settling 
herself  on  a  chair  with  Fifine  on  her  lap.  "I'll 
wait  till  you're  asleep.  You're  velly  sleepy, 
aren't  you,  Sonnie?" 

"Yes,  but  I  wanted — to  tell  you — "  What 
163 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

was  it  he  had  to  tell  Miss  Busybody?  "To  tell 
you — Victory — Life — ' ' 

His  thoughts  were  drifting  by.  He  caught  at 
them,  but  they  drifted  through  his  fingers. 

"Is  that  my  bow  on  the  bed?"  He  tried  to 
catch  the  bar  of  sunlight  on  the  bed,  but  it 
slipped  through  his  hand.  "I  thought  I  had  the 
Strad — too  dark  to  see — " 

"It's  not  dark,  Sonnie;  it's  velly  light.  Are 
you  afraid  of  the  dark?" 

"Not  afraid,"  he  muttered,  drowsily. 

"I  am."  Miss  Busybody  nodded  her  head 
wisely.  "And  then  I  always  say  my  darkness 
hymn,  the  one  with  'Grant  to  little  children 
visions  bright  of  Thee, '  and  'Let  Thy  holy  angels 
watch  around  my  bed.'  " 

"Say  it,"  Sonnie  whispered. 

"What  makes  you  talk  so  low,  Sonnie?  It's 
too  soon  to  say  the  darkness  hymn." 

She  looked  at  him  and  sighed.  His  eyes  were 
closed. 

"He's  not  velly  amusing.  I  wish  Boykin  was 
here.  I'll  say  my  hymn  now,  shall  I,  Sonnie?" 

Sonnie  opened  his  eyes  again  and  smiled.  His 
hands  were  moving  in  the  sunlight. 

"Don't  play  with  your  fingers,  naughty  Son- 
nie. You're  to  go  to  sleep.  Shut  your  eyes; 
I'm  afraid  when  you  look  at  me  like  that." 

Sonnie  smiled  still.  The  bar  of  light  climbed 
his  chest  out  of  reach  of  the  restless  fingers. 
164 


Mr.  Jerningham 

He  folded  his  hands   and  gave  a  long,   gentle 
sigh. 

Miss  Busybody  put  Fifine  down  on  the  bed, 
and  sat  looking  at  Sonnie  with  a  troubled  face. 
"I  wish  he'd  shut  his  eyes  and  his  mouth,"  she 
said,  plaintively.  "It's  drefful  quiet.  I  wish  I 
needn't  stay  till  he's  asleep.  I  wish  he'd  talk. 
It's  drefful  lonely.  I'd  better  say  my  darkness 
hymn." 

'  'Now  the  day  is  over,'  "  she  began.  She 
stopped.  "Hush!"  She  put  her  finger  on  her 
lips  as  Jerningham  came  in  softly. 

"I'm  velly  glad  that  somebody's  come,"  she 
whispered,  scrambling  down  from  the  high  chair. 
"Sonnie  won't  speak,  and  he  won't  go  to  sleep. " 

Jerningham  went  to  the  bed,  and  stood  gazing 
down  at  the  smiling  lips,  the  glazed  eyes.  The 
bar  of  sunset  lay  across  the  laurel  leaves.  The 
kitten  purred  on  comfortably. 

"What  is  Sonnie  looking  at?"  Miss  Busybody 
pulled  Jerningham's  sleeve. 

He  raised  his  head,  laid  down  the  Strad  beside 
Sonnie,  lifted  the  child,  and  went  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SIMPLICITY 

Fifine'spurr  got  on  Jerningham's  nerves.  He 
held  the  kitten  under  his  coat.  Fifine  purred 
on  happily;  she  was  used  to  Jerningham.  That 
purr  was  ironic!  Jerningham  made  a  sudden 
movement  to  put  her  down.  He  changed  his 
mind,  and  drew  the  coat  closer  round  her.  It 
was  not  her  fault  that  she  lived  while  Sonnie 
died. 

His  face  was  gaunt.  There  was  something  in 
his  eyes  that  the  people  in  ',he  hotel  were  shy  of 
looking  at.  It  had  been  there  since  yesterday 
at  sunset.'  And  now  it  was  sunset  again.  Jern- 
ingham caught  his  breath  with  a  hard  sob.  He 
had  just  brought  the  kitten  from  Sonnie's  empty 
room. 

Well,  it  was  all  over  now.  Nothing  was  left 
but  to  go  back  to  England.  His  art  was  over, 
too.  It  would  be  desecration  for  him  to  use 
Sonnie's  Strad;  and  he  would  never  play  again. 
How  could  he  touch  the  strings  that  guarded  the 
music  of  the  boy's  dead  fingers?  The  violin  was 
on  the  coffin,  in  the  mortuary  chapel.  His  eyes 
dragged  themselves  across  the  valley  to  the  pine 
166 


Simplicity 

wood,  where  there  was  a  gleam  of  white  walls. 
His  lips  tightened.  The  path  that  led  to  the 
wood  was  as  lonely  as  the  sunset.  All  at  once 
his  fingers  closed  round  Fifine.  He  lifted  him- 
self. The  violin?  Was  that  the  violin?  Then 
he  dropped  back.  "Fool,"  he  muttered. 

Along  the  valley  came  the  ring  of  the  jodel. 
The  sound  trailed  away  into  silence,  on  which  a 
woman's  voice  drifted  along: 

"  Under  the  winter,  dear, 
Summer's  note  lieth ; 
If  it  be  sweet  to  hear 
Song  never  dieth." 

The  woman  swung  round  the  bend  of  the  path, 
and  was  full  in  sight,  a  point  of  red  on  the 
snow. 

"  Under  the  winter,  dear," 
Summer's  note  lieth." 

It  was  Simplicity.  If  the  red  gown  had  not 
proclaimed  her,  he  would  still  have  known  her 
voice.  But  how  could  she  sing  like  that,  when 
Sonnie — ?  It  was  not  four  hours  since  her  weep- 
ing had  gone  to  his  heart.  They  had  held  each 
other's  hand  and  looked  at  Sonnie  in  silence. 
Then  they  had  turned  from  the  dead  to  the  liv- 
ing, and  their  eyes  had  struggled  together.  He 
was  so  weak,  and  he  needed  to  hear  a  voice  in 
that  awful  silence. 

Simplicity  had  spoken.   "Not  here — not  now." 
Yet  she  could  sing  like  that  four  hours  after! 
167 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

He  watched  the  red  gown  growing  larger.  It 
was  like  the  red  of  sunset.  Her  singing  grew 
louder. 

"  Soon  in  the  forest,  love, 

Breezes  shall  bear  it ; 
'  There  in  the  bough  above, 

Lo !  thou  shall  hear  it !  " 

Two  men,  new  arrivals,  strolled  on  to  the 
balcony. 

"That  girl  is  the  only  lively  thing  in  this  God- 
forsaken hole!"  one  of  them  said.  "Lord!  what 
a  country!  Looks  as  if  we  should  have  more 
snow,  too;  then  good-bye  to  our  skating.  What 
are  you  grinning  at,  Romsey?" 

"Nothing;  only  it's  pleasant  to  hear  my  verses 
sung  in  red  and  white  so  far  from  England." 

"Oh,  confound  it  all!  Can't  you  forget  your 
trade?  But  the  girl  can  sing." 

Romsey  stroked  his  moustache.  His  eyes 
waited  for  Simplicity.  Jerningham  lifted  his 
haggard  face  and  glared  at  them.  This  was 
the  sort  of  person  that  harried  the  place.  But 
what  did  it  matter?  As  soon  as  the  funeral  was 
over  he  would  go  back  to"  London,  to  live  his 
life  again  as  if  he  had  never  known  Sonnie.  But 
could  he  do  that?  Would  he  ever  again  be  satis- 
fied with  the  things  that  had  satisfied  him  before 
he  had  known  the  boy? 

He  leaned  over  the  balcony  rail  and  wondered 
if  his  life  would  be  more  grey  than  it  had  been 
168 


Simplicity 

before  it  had  had  that  point  of  red  in  it.  She 
had  a  large  nature ;  he  could  not  watch  her  every 
day  without  admiring  its  generous  lines.  She 
had  given  friendship  lavishly,  but  her  breadth 
meant  shallowness.  There  had  been  no  depth  in 
her  grief  for  Sonnie. 

She  was  quite  near,  on  the  path  under  the  bal- 
cony, and  she  smiled  up  at  him,  showing  her 
strong,  white  teeth. 

"I  am  coming  to  you;  wait  for  me." 

The  minute  after  she  was  on  the  balcony, 
rosy  and  smiling.  Jerningham  saw  her  gaiety 
with  dull  eyes  that  avoided  hers,  but  Romsey 
smiled  delightedly. 

Simplicity  drew  up  in  her  rapid  walk  towards 
Jerningham.  "What's  the  matter  with  you? 
Come  and  take  a  walk." 

"I  prefer  to  sit  still." 

She  studied  his  face.  "What  have  you  been 
doing  all  the  afternoon?" 

"Nothing." 

"Nursing  kittens.  Call  that  a  man's  work?" 
But  she  liked  him  better  for  taking  notice  of 
Sonnie's  kitten. 

He  made  no  answer.  A  little  tender  smile 
came  into  her  eyes,  and  died  before  it  saw  the 
light. 

"You  would  have  done  better  to  mourn  some 
other  way,"  she  said. 

"I'm  not  like  you;  I  can't  forget,"  he  said. 
169 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

He  rose  wearily,  and  was  passing  her.  Sim- 
plicity gazed  at  him  as  if  she  did  not  understand. 

"Why,  you  wouldn't  have  that  poor  boy  give 
up  his  heaven,  would  you?"  she  cried,  her  eyes 
widening.  "Hasn't  he  done  the  noblest  thing 
he  could  do,  even  if  he  had  lived  a  hundred 
years?  I'm  just  delighted  that  he  has  got  over 
his  rough  bit  of  road  so  quickly.  I  guess  he's 
harping  with  the  sweetest  harp  in  heaven,  and 
all  the  angels  round  him  listening." 

"That  sort  of  thing  may  satisfy  you,"  said 
Jerningham;  "I  don't  believe  in  dreams." 

"Dreams  make  the  life,"  she  said,  flushing, 
"and  dreams  make  the  death.  Sonnie  wouldn't 
smile  like  that  if  he  hadn't  dreamt  in  life.  He 
looks  real  noble;  I've  been  in  the  mortuary  an 
hour  sitting  with  him.  And  I  said  to  myself,  'It 
is  good  to  be  here.'  " 

Jerningham  turned  abruptly  and  left  the  girl. 
She  stared  after  him,  and  one  by  one  the  lights 
in  her  face  went  out,  leaving  a  wan  twilight.  It 
settled  oddly  on  the  strong  lines  of  her  face. 
Her  heel  struck  the  balcony  floor  crisply  as  she 
moved  away. 

"I  wasn't  dreaming,  I  know  that,"  she  said. 
"But  even  if  I  had  been  dreaming,  the  dream 
makes  the  life.  Well,  I  don't  understand  him, 
that's  clear;  and  it's  very  little  comfort  to  know 
that  he's  miles  away  from  understanding  me. 
Life  is  a  real  hard  nut  to  crack.  Sonnie  has 
170 


Simplicity 

cracked  his  nut,    and  I    don't    believe  it  was 
empty." 

Everybody  was  watching  the  sudden  friend- 
ship between  Simplicity  and  Romsey.  It  was 
diverting  to  see  the  ball  of  life  tossing  between 
two  people;  the  movement  broke  up  the  monot- 
ony of  the  hotel.  Everything  had  been  dull 
lately.  Babette  was  well  again,  and  was  prepar- 
ing for  her  wedding.  The  Professor  and  Miss 
Blake  quarrelled  more  intimately  than  before, 
and  looked  the  happier  for  it.  Mrs.  Royston's 
baby  had  found  its  way  safely  into  the  valley. 
Dr.  Engel  went  about  looking  like  a  frost-bitten 
branch.  There  was  no  scandal  to  flavour  the 
season.  The  days  went  yawning  through  the 
twenty-four  hours. 

Simplicity  was  the  only  person  who  looked 
brisk  and  busy,  and  not  bored.  She  never 
seemed  to  have  an  idle  minute.  When  she  was 
not  skating,  sleighing,  tobogganing,  walking  with 
Romsey,  she  was  singing  his  songs  to  music  of 
her  own  setting.  Romsey  was  a  popular  ballad- 
writer.  He  stayed  on  in  the  Mittenthal  after 
his  friend  had  left.  He  and  Simplicity  were 
working  together.  He  supplied  the  song,  she 
the  music.  One  day  she  asked  Jerningham  to 
bring  his  violin  and  accompany  her  on  the  piano. 

"Hasn't  Romsey  accompanied  you  suffi- 
ciently?" he  asked. 

17: 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

The  glance  she  flung  at  him  reminded  him 
that  she  had  once  called  him  "a  little  woman- 
insect."  He  shrivelled  before  her. 

"I  don't  wonder  that  you  can  make  such  a 
speech,"  she  said,  scornfully.  "When  a  man 
spends  his  days  loafing  about  with  a  face  as  long 
as  a  fiddle,  he  ain't  likely  to  be  the  manlier 
fork." 

"I  didn't  think  you  concerned  yourself  with 
my  doings." 

"I  don't;  but  I  concern  myself  with  what  you 
don't  do.  Do  you  suppose  you'll  have  eternity 
to  promenade  in,  when  you  don't  take  the 
trouble  to  mark  life  on  the  six  feet  of  earth  time 
gives  you?" 

"I  wonder  what  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Why  don't  you  take  your  violin  and  do  your 
honest  work  honestly?" 

"I  am  no  artist.     You  said  so  yourself." 

"But  you  have  technique,  and  you  only  need 
passion  to  be  a  great  player.  If  you  felt  things, 
the  feeling  would  grow  in  your  music." 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  should  only  fail.  I 
don't  choose  to  be  a  magnificent  failure." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  impatiently.  "It  would  be 
a  higher  thing,  at  any  rate,  than  crawling 
through  life  on  your  stomach.  Don't  you  see 
that  you  are  losing  your  limbs  by  not  using  them? 
You  crawl  when  you  might  fly — when  you  might 
be  another  Sonnie. " 

173 


Simplicity 

The  storm  in  her  voice  shook  Jerningham. 

"Sonnie  had  wings,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"So  has  the  chrysalis;  only  it  must  spread 
them." 

"The  chrysalis  waits  for  the  sun." 

"You  sit  with  your  back  to  the  light."  She 
swung  round  and  left  him. 

He  looked  after  her,  until  the  wistfulness  in 
his  eyes  grew  bold  and  showed  itself  openly. 

Was  he  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  light? 
Was  she  all  that  he  had  once  believed  her  to  be — 
true  and  deep  and  great-hearted? 

His  eyes  clung  about  her  as  If  they  would  have 
dragged  her  back  to  him.  Then  their  hold  loos- 
ened. 

"Mr.  Romsey, "  Simplicity  was  calling, 
"don't  you  want  to  hear  me  play  your  new 
song?" 

A  bitter  smile  twisted  Jerningham's  lips. 
"She's  only  a  heartless  flirt — a  worthless,  shal- 
low girl.  And  I  stay  on  here,  wasting  my  life  for 
her.  I  will  go;  I  won't  stay  a  single  day  longer. " 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  closed  eyes- 
Pain  twined  itself  among  the  lines  of  his  face. 

Two  little  feet  pattered  past  him,  returned, 
and  stopped  beside  him.  He  looked  up,  and  saw 
Miss  Busybody  gazing  at  him  with  soft,  troubled 
eyes. 

"I'm  'fraid  your  head's  bad.  Shall  I  kiss 
away  the  pain?" 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"The  pain  won't  be  kissed  away,"  he  said. 

Miss  Busybody  sighed.  "It's  drefful  tiresome 
not  to  do  anything.  Simplicity  said  I  could 
toboggan  with  her,  but  she  won't  go.  She's 
crying  in  her  room,  and  she  says  her  headVbad. 
I'm  drefful  lonely.  Boykin's  gone  away,  and  I 
want  Sonnie. " 

Jerningham  lifted  the  child  on  his  knee,  and 
wrapped  his  cloak  round  her.  She  nestled  to 
him,  warm  and  confiding.  "I  like  talking,"  she 
said.  "You're  a  nice  man  to  talk  to.  Tell  me 
why  you  put  your  violin  on  Sonnie's  coffin." 

"I  gave  it  him  because  he  wanted  it." 

"But  he  didn't  want  it;  Marie  said  he  didn't. 
God  has  put  him  in  the  German  band  in  heaven. 
I  expect  he  has  the  boofullest  harp.  Will  you 
take  the  violin  back?" 

"No,"  said  Jerningham;  "I  don't  know  how 
to  play  it." 

"I  know  how  Sonnie  played  it."  She  lifted 
her  head  and  looked  at  him  knowingly.  "He 
told  me  once.  He  listened  to  what  the  stars 
told  him,  and  the  snow,  and  the  trees,  and  the 
wind,  and  then  he  put  it  into  music.  Some- 
times it  hurt  him  drefful;  but  the  more  it  hurt 
him,  the  more  he  liked  to  play.  And  he  could 
see  things — great,  big,  beautiful  things — better 
than  angels.  But  Marie  said  they  were  only 
common  people,  like  Philippa  and  Simplicity." 


Simplicity 

"Do  you  like  Simplicity?"  Jerningham  asked. 
He  hated  himself  for  asking. 

Miss  Busybody  nodded.  "Yes,  and  my  Uncle 
Rob  just  adores  her;  he  says  so.  He  has  to  die 
soon,  but  he  says  he  doesn't  mind.  And  Sim- 
plicity is  going  to  hold  his  hand,  and  shout 
'Death  and  Victory!'  all  the  time  till  he  is  dead. 
I  think  he  wants  me  now;  I  think  I  had  better 
go  and  see." 

She  scrambled  down,  and  lifted  her  mouth  up 
to  Jerningham  for  a  kiss.  "Will  you  take  me 
tobogganing  to-morrow?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  afraid  not.    I'm  going  away  to-morrow." 

Miss  Busybody's  eyes  brimmed  up.  "I  wish 
you  wouldn't!"  she  cried.  "It's  drefful  lonely. 
Everybody  is  going  away,  Boykin  and  Sonnie. 
And  Simplicity  won't  play  with  me,  and  my 
Uncle  Rob  will  soon  be  dead.  And  there  won't 
be  anybody  left.  And  Miss  Baker  has  gone,  and 
taken  away  Fifine;  and  Sonnie  won't  come  back. 
I  think  God  might  have  remembered  that  I'm  a 
velly  lonely  little  girl  without  Sonnie." 

"Don't  cry,"  said  Jerningham,  stroking  her 
little  fat  hand.  "Don't  cry;  I  won't  go  away 
to-morrow.  I'll  stay  and  play  with  you." 

"And  Simplicity?"  Miss  Busybody  bright- 
ened. "Will  you  play  with  Simplicity,  too?" 

"Simplicity  has  other  people  to  play  with, 
Miss  Busybody." 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

That  was  a  fortnight  ago,  and  Simplicity  had 
scarcely  spoken  to  him  since.  His  weary  droop 
had  come  back;  he  read  at  meals,  and  took  no 
notice  of  any  one  but  Miss  Busybody.  She  was 
his  little  friend;  he  let  her  sit  on  his  knee  and 
chatter  to  him  of  Simplicity.  He  could  not 
believe  that  the  girl  was  a  heartless  flirt  when  he 
heard  of  her  tenderness  to  Major  Sanderson  and 
the  child. 

He  said  no  more  about  leaving.  He  knew 
that  while  Simplicity  remained  he  would  remain, 
too.  But  she  did  not  speak  to  him,  and  his  days 
were  very  lonely.  She  was  not  altogether  to 
blame  for  her  silence  towards  him.  He  avoided 
her  himself,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  that 
he  did  so.  She  was  always  in  high  spirits,  bois- 
terous even  to  grotesqueness.  Her  gaiety  swung 
like  a  brilliant  Japanese  lantern  above  the  dusk 
of  pain,  and  the  shadows  fled.  Every  morning 
her  laugh  flew  along  with  her  toboggan  where 
the  red  and  blue  flags  marked  the  course  of  the 
ice-run.  Jerningham,  hidden  among  the  pines 
above  the  run,  followed  the  laugh  and  the  flash 
of  the  red  gown,  and  the  loneliness  at  his  heart 
tightened.  He  was  very  lonely  without  his 
music,  without  Sonnie,  without  the  dream  that 
he  had  dreamed.  He  was  terribly  lonely. 
There  was  a  crook  in  his  fate.  Romsey  had 
arrived  in  the  hotel  the  very  day  that  Love  had 
stood  like  an  angel  of  life  at  the  bed  of  the  dead 
176 


Simplicity 

boy.  He  went  over  the  scene  again,  and  lived 
through  the  hours  that  followed.  He  had  sat 
on  the  balcony  till  the  sun  had  set  and  the  silence 
had  ripped  open  the  grave  in  his  heart.  At  sun- 
set Sonnie  had  always  played,  and  that  day  the 
stillness  had  touched  notes  deeper  than  sound. 
The  notes  had  been  so  deep  he  had  felt,  not 
heard  them.  The  snow  had  grown  leaden  round 
him,  like  life.  And  suddenly  the  twilight  had 
blazed  with  scarlet,  and  her  voice  had  flaunted 
along  the  valley: 

"  Under  the  winter,  dear, 
Summer's  note  lieth; 
If  it  be  sweet  to  hear, 
Song  never  dieth." 

They  had  been  Romsey's  words,  and  Romsey 
had  heard  them.  Well,  the  song  had  not  been 
for  him. 

One  morning  spring  came  to  the  Mittenthal. 
A  sea  of  sunlight  tossed  its  waves  among  the 
hills.  The  snow  in  the  valley  was  still  to  swoon- 
ing. The  sword  of  the  sun  had  struck  its  heart. 
Down  on  the  road  a  thin  tinkle  of  cowbells 
lingered  along  the  line  of  the  lingering  cows. 
In  the  pine  wood  there  was  a  measured  thud — 
thud.  The  snow-wreaths  were  slipping  onto 
the  roof  of  the  mortuary  chapel,  wreath  to 
wreath,  ice  to  ice,  snow  to  snow. 

In  the  hotels  the  steps  of  the  waiters  had 
177 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

quickened.  On  the  balconies  the  faces  of  the 
invalids  had  become  alert.  Life  was  among 
them,  tossing  her  balls  from  hand  to  hand. 
Major  Sanderson  had  not  even  strength  to  open 
his  palm  as  she  passed  him. 

The  restlessness  in  the  air  seized  Jerningham. 
The  time  would  soon  come  when  he  must  go 
away,  beggared  of  ambition  and  the  few  grudg- 
ing gifts  that  hope  had  given. 

If  he  had  had  his  music  still.  But  it  would 
never  satisfy  him  again.  Sonnie  had  made  him 
see  the  futility  of  it;  his  art  was  cold  and  dead. 
Simplicity's  eyes  accused  him  of  crawling  through 
life.  Well,  he  would  crawl  back  to  the  big,  piti- 
less London,  that  sucked  in  life's  failures  and 
nourished  itself  with  the  blood  of  man's  vain 
aspiring — and  yet —  Ah,  how  the  prospect 
stifled  him! 

He  sprang  up.  He  would  climb  the  Brunberg; 
climb  and  climb  until  this  beating  of  baffled 
wings,  this  sound  of  music  clamouring,  settled 
again  into  the  toneless  peace  he  had  become 
accustomed  to. 

It  was  the  spring  in  his  blood  that  had  stirred 
it.  He  would  climb — get  higher  and  higher, 
walk  until  he  dropped,  until  this  fluttering 
motion  of  life  and  sound  of  music  dropped,  too, 
and  died  of  its  own  struggle  to  live. 

The  path  twisted  in  and  out  of  the  wood, 
between  the  ranks  of  solemn  pines  that  stood  to 
178 


Simplicity 

watch  it  going  by.  The  snow  had  been  beaten 
down  by  feet  passing.  Now  and  then  the  dull 
thud  of  falling  snow  broke  the  silence.  High 
up  the  path  a  peasant  went  jodelling.  The 
breath  of  resin  charged  the  air  with  springtime. 
The  great  patience  of  nature  lay  white  and  wait- 
ing among  the  roots.  In  the  top  of  the  pines  a 
light  wind  sang  like  the  high  notes  of  the  violin. 

"Sonnie  listened  to  what  the  wind  told  him, 
and  he  put  it  into  music."  Miss  Busybody's 
voice  drifted  by. 

Jerningham  climbed  up  and  up,  but  he  could 
not  get  away  from  her  voice — from  the  tumult 
in  his  pulses.  Strange  harmonies  strove  in  him 
with  a  beating  of  baffled  wings.  His  quick, 
short  breaths  came  gustily  in  the  struggle.  The 
high  notes  in  the  pines  tingled  through  and 
through  him.  He  heard  a  fine,  wavering  melody 
with  a  measured  underbeat  in  the  song  of  the 
wind.  He  stopped,  breathless,  and  leaned 
against  a  tree. 

Voices  were  in  the  wood,  winding  about  him 
with  the  winding  of  the  path. 

"You  dear  man!  Well,  I'm  just  as  happy. 
But  it's  impossible — I  don't  believe — " 

Jerningham  did  not  hear  the  end  of  the  sen- 
tence, but  the  man's  reply  fell  on  his  ear  with 
the  sound  and  the  weight  of  falling  snow. 

"Not  love  you?  Who  could  help  loving  you? 
Don't  you  know  how  frank  and  generous  and. 
179 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

womanly  you  are?  I'll  not  forget  the  first  day 
I  saw  you.  You  came  along  the  valley  singing 
one  of  my  own  songs." 

Every  muscle  in  Jerningham's  body  tightened 
to  hear  the  woman's  voice,  but  the  winding  of 
the  road  caught  it  away.  By  and  by  the  deeper 
voice  rang  out: 

"Of  course  it's  all  right.  You  are  going  to  be 
very  happy  with  the  man  you  love.  How  queer 
all  this  is.  And  I  thought  you  were  grave 
because  my  songs  bored  you." 

Simplicity's  laugh  sprinkled  the  wood  with 
gay  little  echoes.  "Your  songs?  What  conceit! 
Goodness!  I  concern  myself  with  songs  when  I 
was  haunted  by  a  silence?" 

Jerningham  twisted  an  arm  round  the  tree  to 
keep  himself  from  falling.  His  blinded  eye 
struck  the  path  below.  There  was  a  dash  of  red 
behind  the  lattice  of  pines. 

Late  that  evening  he  returned  to  the  hotel. 
He  hoped  no  one  would  see  him  come  in,  but 
Simplicity  was  in  the  hall,  walking  restlessly  up 
and  down. 

He  saw  her  face  change,  but  his  own  was  dead. 
She  ran  forward,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"You  look  like  a  sick  man!  Where  have  you 
been  all  day?  Come  right  into  the  reading-room; 
I  saw  to  the  fire.  Why,  you  are  as  numb — " 

She  drew  him  into  the  room,  and  pushed  him 
into  the  chair  before  the  fire. 
180 


Simplicity 

'Now  toast  yourself  well.  Where  have  you 
been?  I  declare  you  frightened  us  all.  We 
thought  of  avalanches  and  ravines." 

"No,"  he  said,  huskily;  "I  was  in  the  wood. 
I  had  been  dreaming,  but  I  woke — woke  in 
time — " 

"Good  for  you!"  she  cried,  half -sob  in  her 
laugh.  "Why,  you  might  have  been  asleep  still, 
frozen  to  death." 

"It  is  the  music  in  me  that  is  frozen  to 
death." 

"Say  you  so?"  She  sprang  up  and  gazed  at  him 
with  flashing  eyes.  "You  are  wrong!  It  appears 
to  me  that  the  music  has  wakened.  You  have 
it  in  your  face — your  eyes  are  so  deep.  It  is 
Sonnie's  own  look  when  he  played." 

"I  shall  never  play  again."  His  tired  voice 
trailed  a  shadow  across  her  eyes.  "My  life  is 
over.  I  am  a  defeated  man;  one  of  life's  fail- 
ures. Even  Love  has  cast  me  out." 

"Ah,  no!  not  that!"  she  cried,  passionately. 
"How  can  you  say  that,  when — when — "  She 
choked,  but  went  on  again,  an  eager  intensity  in 
her  voice.  "A  failure?  defeated?  Why,  it's 
just  that  which  makes  the  artist.  When  Sonnie 
died  I  had  the  biggest  hopes  of  you.  I  said  to 
myself:  'Now  he  will  find  his  art;  now  he  will 
feel  and  make  us  feel.  When  the  sob  is  in  his 
heart  it  will  sound  in  the  strings.'  But  it  didn't. 
I  waited  till  I  was  sick  with  waiting  to  hear  that 
181 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

violin.  Sonnie's  death  didn't  teach  you  any- 
thing. It  only  dried  up  your  manliness." 

"It  taught  me  a  hard  lesson,"  he  said,  dully. 
"Don't  let  me  forget  that  I  have  learned  it." 

He  rose  unsteadily  and  held  out  his  hand. 
Pain  had  bleached  his  smile.  "Good  night,  and 
good-bye;  I  start  for  England  to-morrow." 

He  dropped  her  hand  and  turned  away  with- 
out looking  at  her.  Then  he  paused,  hesitating. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  brokenly,  "I  hope  you 
will  be  very  happy  with  the  man  you  love." 

Simplicity  was  staring  at  him  with  colourless 
lips  parted.  Her  eyes  looked  like  cages  in  which 
the  singing-birds  had  dropped,  wounded.  At  his 
words  the  colour  rushed  back  to  her  face,  the 
birds  fluttered  up  again  to  their  perch.  She 
laughed,  a  curious,  shattered  laugh. 

"Why,  if  this  isn't  the  funniest  thing  I  ever 
heard,"  she  began.  The  words  broke  off.  She 
dashed  past  him  out  of  the  room. 

Jerningham  packed,  his  face  grown  stern. 

"I  didn't  think  she  was  quite  so  heartless," 
he  said  to  himself.  But  when  he  put  the  violin- 
case  with  his  Gladstones,  her  words  came  back 
to  him: 

"When  the  sob  is  in  the  heart,  it  will  sound 
in  the  strings.  Defeat  and  failure  make  the 
artist." 

"If  that  is  true,  I  should  be  an  artist,"  he  said. 
"But  I  am  no  artist.  I  will  never  play  again." 
182 


Simplicity 

"I  grew  sick  of  waiting  to  hear  that  violin." 
Well,  she  would  never  hear  it  again. 

He  took  the  Strad  out  of  the  case  and  gazed 
at  it.  He  could  almost  see  Sonnie's  face  bend- 
ing over  it;  he  could  almost  hear  the  music  the 
boy  had  played — a  fine,  wavering  melody,  with  a 
measured  underbeat  in  it.  The  music  must  be 
in  the  strings  yet.  They  had  not  been  touched 
since  they  touched  Sonnie's  coffin. 

He  struggled  with  the  impulse  to  play.  It 
fought  with  his  will.  He  felt  the  beat  of  baffled 
wings. 

At  last  he  straightened  himself.  "Once 
again, "  he  said;  "I  will  play  this  once.  I  will 
lay  the  music  on  the  face  of  the  dead." 

He  took  the  violin  downstairs,  and  went  onto 
the  balcony.  No  one  was  there.  The  lights 
were  out.  The  mist  was  heavy  on  the  valley. 
He  seemed  to  be  following  Simplicity's  sound- 
less feet  across  the  snow.  The  night  was  full  of 
the  tramp  of  feet  stepping  to  a  fine,  wavering 
melody.  It  was  Sonnie  playing  again!  It  was 
Sonnie  playing  again ! 

With  a  sob,  half-agony,  half-delight,  Jerning- 
ham  swept  the  bow  across  the  strings,  and  the 
music'leaped  forth. 

He  played   on  and   on,  to  the  tramp  of  that 

procession   of    the   dead — ambition,    pride,    the 

lust  of  life,  the  desire  of  the  eye.     Cowled  and 

hooded  they  passed  him.     He  played  on  and  on, 

183 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

the  notes  sweeping  upward,  deepening,  flooding, 
till  the  whole  valley  heard  the  tramp  of  passing 
feet. 

As  the  last  faint  note  was  folded  in  mist  Jern- 
ingham  sank  down  trembling.  He  could  still 
hear  the  feet  passing.  But  it  was  the  tap  of 
Simplicity's  heels  on  the  balcony  floor. 

She  kneeled  down  beside  him,  and  laid  her 
face  on  his  hand.  He  knew  by  her  tears  that 
she  was  weeping. 

"I  heard  you  playing;  I  stood  and  listened  till 
I  couldn't  keep  my  senses.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  letting  my  life  go  past  me.  I  saw  the 
dead  folk  while  you  played.  And  the  last  turned 
and  looked  at  me,  and  I  saw  Love  going  by  to 
join  the  dead." 

She  sobbed  comfortlessly  a  moment,  then 
lifted  her  head  with  a  sudden  passion. 

"And  I'm  not  going  to  be  such  a  fool  as  to  let 
Love  pass  me  and  die  for  the  want  of  a  word. 
It's  all  miserable,  heartless  convention  that 
keeps  a  woman  silent  when  Love  is  passing  her 
for  the  want  of  a  word.  Oh,  you  genius,  my 
genius!"  Her  voice  was  tender  and  soft  and 
infinitely  womanly.  "Don't  you  know  when  a 
woman  loves  you?" 

"What  is  this?  What?"  Jerningham  faltered. 
"I  thought  it  was  Romsey.  Isn't  Romsey  the 
man  you  love?" 

"Romsey?  Why,  Romsey's  engaged  to  my 
184 


Simplicity 

best  friend.  That's  how  I  came  to  know  his 
songs.  Besides,  he  knew  all  the  time  I  loved 
you.  Why,  do  you  think  I'd  have  kept  up  all 
these  weeks  if  that  dear  creature  hadn't  helped 
me?  And  now?  Oh,  my  dear  man!  You  shan't 
go  away  if  I  can  keep  you.  I  want  you.  I  want 
to  be  very  happy  with  the  man  I  love." 

"I  think — I  am  dreaming — I  must  be  dream- 
ing," Jerningham  stammered. 

"We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of," 
Simplicity  said.  The  words  were  a  fine,  waver- 
ing melody  with  an  underbeat  in  them. 


185 


CHAPTER  X 

MARIE 

Boykin  lived  with  his  mother  in  a  chalet  at 
Pitzen,  and  every  day  there  were  words  between 
Miss  Busybody  and  her  nurse,  Marie,  as  to  the 
road  they  should  take.  Miss  Busybody  liked 
nature  and  Pitzen;  Marie  preferred  Mittenplatz 
and  the  chance  of  seeing  Dr.  Engel's  coach- 
man, Jakob  Meyer. 

"I'm  going  to  Pitzen."  Miss  Busybody 
planted  her  snow-shoes  firmly  one  day.  "There 
is  pines  and  chalets  at  Pitzen." 

"Ach!  but  the  shops  at  Mittenplatz!"  Marie 
said,  in  German. 

"I  hate  shops,  Marie.  And  I  don't  want  to 
talk  to  Jakob  Meyer.  He's  not  velly  amusing. 
He  only  says  "Ja  wohl. " 

"But  the  Herr  Doctor,  liebchen, "  Marie 
coaxed.  "The  Doctor  that  thou  lovest,  whose 
pockets  hold  gifts  for  thee.  Ach!  how  pleasant 
to  meet  him!"  And  Marie  spread  out  her  arms 
rapturously. 

Miss  Busybody  looked  fixedly  towards  Pitzen. 

"Ach,  Gott!  the  obstinate!"  Marie  sighed, 
186 


Marie 

But  she  must  see  Jakob  that  morning  before 
Berta,  Boykin's  nurse,  came  into  town. 

"Look,  sweet  one,"  she  said;  "we  will  go  to 
the  wonderful  hen  that  lays  the  sugar  eggs.  And 
who  can  tell?  I  may  find  twenty  centimes  for 
thee. " 

Miss  Busybody  brightened.  Two  sly  little 
devils  came  into  her  eyes  and  stayed  there. 
She  turned  slowly  towards  Mittenplatz. 

"Give  me  the  centimes  first." 

"Ach,  the  cunning  rogue!"  Marie  searched 
her  pockets. 

"Here,  then.     Now  hasten,  for  we  are  late." 

She  dragged  Miss  Busybody  along  the  road, 
her  eyes  darting  from  side  to  side  in  search  of 
the  Doctor's  sleigh. 

And  there  it  was,  before  the  Kurhaus!  Ach! 
if  the  Herr  Doctor  should  come  out  and  drive 
away  before  she  could  speak  to  Jakob ! 

She  pressed  on,  Miss  Busybody  trotting  will- 
ingly to  match  her  pace.  Heaven  was  kind. 
The  sleigh  was  yet  at  the  door;  Jakob  still 
crouched  in  his  fur  cape  on  the  box.  He  looked 
cold.  Marie's  rosy  smiles  might  have  warmed 
him,  but  he  remained  chilly  while  she  poured  out 
a  torrent  of  persuasive  German.  As  she  fin- 
ished, the  Doctor's  voice  was  heard  speaking 
sharply  in  the  Kurhaus. 

"Ja  wohl!"  Jakob  said,  hastily,  and  gathered 
up  the  reins  and  straightened  himself. 
:87 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Marie  dragged  Miss  Busybody  across  the  road, 
and  stood  gazing  pensively  at  the  Kurhaus  gar- 
dens. 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Busybody,"  Engel 
called,  and  kissed  his  hand  to  the  child  as  he 
hurried  into  the  sleigh.  Miss  Busybody  turned, 
smiled  shyly,  and  hung  behind  Marie's  skirts. 

"Catch!"  said  Engel,  and  threw  a  little  parcel 
at  her  as  he  passed. 

"Chocolates!"  Miss  Busybody  beamed, with  her 
mouth  full.  By  and  by  she  looked  up  at  Marie. 

"I  know  what  the  Procession  of  the  Betrothed 
is,  Marie.  Karl  and  Babette  are  going  to  drive 
in  it,  too.  Dr.  Engel  has  lent  them  his  sleigh. 
Are  you  going  to  drive  with  Jakob  in  the  Proces- 
sion der  Verlobten,  Marie?" 

"I  don't  speak  of  Jakob,"  said  Marie,  growing 
very  red.  "On  Sunday  there  is  the  procession 
of  the  children,  when  those  who  love  drive  out 
on  their  toboggans  with  garlands  and  great  glad- 
ness." 

"But  don't  you  love  Jakob,  Marie?  Boykin 
says  Berta  loves  him.  She  wants  to  be  betrothed 
to  him,  like  Karl  and  Babette.  And  you  told 
Jakob  you  would  go  in  the  Procession  of  the 
Betrothed;  you  know  you  did,  Marie." 

"Ach  was!"  Marie  sighed.      "See,  kindchen, 

don't  speak  of  this;  and  if  thou  art  silent,  thou 

shalt  see  the  procession  of  the  children.      On 

Sunday  the  boys  take  the  little  maidens  of  their 

188 


Marie 

hearts  to  Bergstein  to  keep  fest.  The  toboggans 
are  decked  with  pine  and  roses.  It  is  wunder- 
schon. " 

Miss  Busybody  pranced  in  the  snow.  "Yes, 
yes!  I  want  to  see  them.  We'll  all  go— Boykin 
and  me,  and  Karl  and  Babette,  and  you  and 
Jakob  Meyer — eh,  Marie?  Shall  we  all  go?" 

Marie  lifted  her  eyes  in  despair.  "The  child 
betrays  all.  And  Berta  will  hear  of  it,  and  will 
persuade  Jakob,  and  they  will  betroth  them- 
selves. Dear  little  one — "  She  took  Miss  Busy- 
body's hand  and  pressed  it  earnestly.  "If  thou 
speakest  of  this,  thou  canst  not  go.  It  is  a  tre- 
mendous secret  for  the  little  peasants  of  the 
Alps;  but  if  thou  art  silent,  thou  shalt  see  the 
procession  of  the  children.  Givest  thou  the 
faithful  promise?" 

"I  promise,"  said  Miss  Busybody,  gravely. 
"I  promise  velly  faithfully — only  perhaps  Fifine, 
and  perhaps  Boykin.  And  I  won't  tell  Berta, 
either.  Here's  the  hen.  Come,  Marie,  come." 

She  trotted  up  to  the  automatic  hen  that  sat 
in  the  road  on  a  wooden  pedestal.  Standing 
on  tiptoe,  she  could  drop  her  money  into  its 
mouth.  The  hen  swallowed  the  twenty  cen- 
times, Marie  pulled  out  a  spring,  a  big  white 
egg  fell  into  the  net. 

Miss  Busybody  stood,  all  eyes  and  delight, 
while  Marie  opened  the  egg  and  read  the  motto 
inside. 

189 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Sweetheart  mine,  come  fly  with  me; 
Feast  is  spread  for  me  and  thee; 
Crowned  with  garlands  bright  of  flowers, 
We  shall  sport  through  sunny  hours." 

"Ach,  it  is  heavenly — the  joy  of  those  who 
love!"  Marie  sighed.  "But  thou  hast  eaten 
chocolates;  thou  mayest  not  eat  the  sweets  from 
the  egg." 

Miss  Busybody  said  nothing,  but  her  teeth 
met  on  the  sweets  with  a  determined  crunch. 
She  folded  the  motto  and  put  it  back  in  the 
egg. 

"Miss  Busybody!  Miss  Busybody!" 

A  little  boy  in  a  red  cap  was  running  towards 
them,  shouting.  It  was  Boykin.  Miss  Busybody 
ran  to  meet  him.  She  put  her  arms  round  him, 
and  kissed  him  many  times.  He  was  a  little 
smaller  and  younger  than  she.  Boykin  wiped 
off  the  kisses  with  the  tassel  of  his  cap. 

"I  met  Philippa, "  he  said.  "She's  velly 
pretty.  Her  hair  curls  better'n  yours." 

Miss  Busybody  gazed  at  him  reproachfully. 
She  endured  torments  from  curl-papers  because 
Boykin  admired  curls. 

"I've  got  chocs  and  a  sugar  egg,"  she  said, 
stoutly.  "It's  got  a  motto  inside  it." 

"I  don't  like  chocs."  Boykin  looked  at  her 
boldly  as  he  told  the  fib.  "And  you  can't  read 
the  motto.  There  isn't  a  book  in  the  world  that 
Philippa  can't  read." 

190 


Marie 

"I  can  read,"  she  said,  eagerly;  "yes,  I  can. 
I  can  read  the  motto — as  well  as  Philippa. " 

She  unrolled  the  strip  of  paper,  and  inspired 
by  the  urgency  of  the  situation,  read  glibly: 

"  Sweetheart,  come  out  and  play, 
The  little  boys  and  the  little  girls  are  gay; 
They  are  gay  with  flowers  and  play, 
And  drive  each  other  in  the  sleigh." 

She  looked  triumphantly  at  Boykin.  "There! 
and  Philippa's  older  than  me." 

"I  don't  want  to  read,"  said  Boykin,  with  dig- 
nity. "And  Philippa's  hair  curls." 

"I've  got  a  secret,"  Miss  Busybody  panted, 
her  chest  swelling.  "It's  a  tremendous  secret, 
and  I've  promised  not  to  tell.  The  motto  means 
it,  and  I  won't  tell  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  know  it.  I've  got  a  secret 
with  Philippa."  Boykin  strutted  off,  a  hand  in 
each  pocket,  his  red  cap  singularly  defiant. 

"Bo  —  oy  —  kin!"  The  word  swelled  with 
tears,  but  Miss  Busybody  did  not  move.  Boykin 
walked  on,  kicking  the  snow  about  with  his 
feet.  Marie  and  Berta,  following  behind,  told 
each  other  that  he  was  a  very  naughty,  spoiled 
child." 

"Boy — oy — kin!"  Miss  Busybody  wailed.  He 
took  no  notice,  and  she  trotted  after  him,  sob- 
bing. 

"Boy — kin,  I'll  never  kiss  you  again." 

"Philippa  kissed  me  just  now,"  Boykin  said, 
191 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

musingly;  "one  on  both  cheeks.  She's  got  all 
her  tooths;  yours  has  gaps  in  them." 

"When  I'm  older  I'll  have  tooths  that  take 
out  and  put  in  again.  Philippa's  can't  take 
out,"  said  Miss  Busybody  with  spirit. 

"Philippa  hasn't  got  a  sugar  egg,  and  she 
hasn't  got  chocs,"  said  Boykin,  thoughtfully. 
"I  loves  you,  Miss  Busybody." 

Miss  Busybody  suddenly  showed  all  the  gaps 
in  her  teeth.  "And  I  loves  you,  Boykin,"  she 
smiled.  "I'll  tell  you  my  secret,  and  I'll  give 
you  all  my  chocs." 

Boykin  gravely  accepted  the  chocolate. 
"You're  nicer  than  Philippa,"  he  said;  "and  I 
b'lieve  she  has  a  wig.  Cook  has. " 

Miss  Busybody  flung  her  arms  round  him  and 
whispered  the  secret.  "I  don't  care  what  Marie 
says;  I'll  go,  too,"  Boykin  said  when  she  had 
finished. 

This  was  on  Thursday.  During  Friday  and 
Saturday  the  children  were  inseparable,  and  the 
two  nurses  were  forced  to  spend  most  of  the  day 
together.  This  suited  Marie,  who  knew  that 
Berta  had  fewer  opportunities  of  meeting  Jakob. 
If  they  saw  him  in  the  sleigh,  neither  spoke  to 
him,  and  Marie  dropped  her  eyes.  She  did  not 
wish  Berta  to  suspect  that  she  and  Jakob  under- 
stood each  other.  Berta's  pursuit  of  Jakob  was 
no  secret.  It  had  already  made  a  coolness 
between  him  and  Marie ;  but  if  they  could  be 
192 


Marie 

kept  apart  until  Marie  had  driven  in  the  Proces- 
sion of  the  Betrothed  with  Jakob,  there  would  be 
nothing  more  to  fear  from  Berta.  Marie 
dreaded  lest  Miss  Busybody,  who  was  a  terrible 
gossip,  should  betray  her;  and  she  invested  the 
secret  with  imagination  and  awe  by  making  a 
show  of  mysterious  preparations  for  Sunday. 
For  those  two  days  Miss  Busybody  and  Boykin 
kept  their  own  secret.  It  was  nothing  new  to 
see  them  together.  Miss  Busybody's  love  affair 
with  Boykin  had  amused  everybody.  The  court- 
ship, the  quarrels,  the  reconcilements  of  the  two 
were  common  property. 

Miss  Busybody  had  an  engagement-ring  of 
Thun  china,  but  it  was  seldom  on  her  finger, 
being  removed  with  broken-hearted  passion  in 
ever  interval  between  quarrel  and  reconciliation. 
Boykin's  heart,  while  anchored  to  Miss  Busy- 
body, tossed  between  Philippa  and  Simplicity, 
and  Miss  Busybody  knew  already  the  tender 
pains  of  love.  She  did  not  mind  much  Simpli- 
city's influence  over  Boykin,  but  she  was  herself 
a  victim  to  Philippa's  gaiety  and  charm,  and  she 
did  not  see  how  Boykin  could  resist  them. 

But  for  two  whole  days  love  had  been  tranquil. 
The  children  were  in  no  danger  of  forgetting 
their  secret.  In  every  chalet  in  the  valley  the 
little  peasants  were  busy  preparing  for  Sunday's 
fest.  At  each  door  there  was  a  toboggan  of 
quaint  shape,  which  the  boys  were  making 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

ready,  polishing  the  wood,  brightening  the  run- 
ners. Boykin  and  Miss  Busybody  nudged  each 
other  whenever  they  passed  one.  Sometimes  the 
chalet  door  stood  open,  and  they  could  see  the 
long,  low  room,  raftered  with  larch,  the  peat 
glow  reddening  the  beams,  the  flames  leaping  on 
the  polished  pine  settles  round  the  walls.  Some- 
times, on  the  table,  their  eyes  would  be  caught 
in  a  tangle  of  coloured  paper — purple  and  green 
and  violet  and  gold — from  which  the  girls  were 
making  loops  of  flowers. 

And  then  Miss  Busybody  would  push  nearer 
to  Boykin,  and  whisper  excitedly  that  she  and 
Marie  had  made  better  flowers  than  those,  and 
that  her  toboggan,  dressed  with  four  yellow  flags 
and  beautiful  red  roses,  was  all  ready  for  Sun- 
day. And  Boykin  would  draw  in  his  breath 
valiantly,  and  set  his  teeth  over  the  desire  to 
tell  the  other  boys  that  he  was  going,  too,  into 
the  Bergstein  valley. 

His  face  had  grown  serious  during  these  days. 
It  was  dreadful  to  keep  a  secret  from  Berta,  but 
he  had  given  Miss  Busybody  the  promise  of  "a 
genkilman,"  and  that  promise  Boykin  never 
broke.  Miss  Busybody  had  arranged  his  plan  of 
conduct.  Next  Sunday,  instead  of  going  to  sit 
with  his  mother  after  lunch,  he  was  to  slip  out 
of  the  house  and  hide  himself  in  the  pine  wood 
beyond  it.  Then  when  the  procession  came  by 
he  was  to  run  out  and  jump  on  Miss  Busybody's 
194 


Marie 

toboggan,  and  Marie  would  be  obliged  to  take 
him  with  them  to  Bergstein. 

Miss  Busybody  drilled  the  plan  into  his  ears 
whenever  they  stopped  to  watch  the  peasants 
preparing  for  Sunday.  And  the  nurses  watched 
the  preparations,  too,  each  pretending  that  pro- 
cessions had  no  interest  for  her.  But  the  chil- 
dren's procession  was  only  a  forecast  of  the 
Procession  of  the  Betrothed  that  would  take 
place  the  following  Sunday. 

All  Sunday  morning  Boykin's  brow  was  grave 
with  surmise.  His  mother  was  lunching  out,  and 
how  was  he  to  escape  from  Berta?  How  could 
he  slip  away  to  join  the  procession  if  he  had  to 
spend  the  afternoon  with  her  in  the  nursery? 
And  what  would  Miss  Busybody  say  if  he  broke 
the  word  of  a  gentleman? 

He  had  no  appetite  for  his  dinner.  The  tinkle 
of  bells  and  the  piping  of  flutes  added  to  the 
confusion  in  his  mind.  The  little  peasants  were 
already  gathering  before  the  church  at  Pitzen, 
and  how  was  he  to  escape  from  Berta? 

He  looked  at  her  wistfully,  but  she  did  not 
notice  him.  Her  face  was  furious;  her  brows 
met  above  her  nose.  He  wondered  if  she  was  in 
a  temper  because  she  was  not  going  with  Marie 
to  Bergstein.  But  he  knew  better  than  to  ask 
questions  when  Berta  was  in  a  temper. 

She  finished  her  dinner  quickly.  Then  she 
took  him  to  the  nursery,  and  gave  him  his 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Noah's  ark.  She  arranged  in  couples  Noah 
and  his  wife,  and  Shem  and  Ham  and  Japhet, 
with  their  wives,  and  telling  Boykin  to  set  all 
the  animals  in  pairs,  and  not  to  move  till  she 
came  back,  she  left  him. 

A  minute  after  Boykin  heard  the  street  door 
slam.  He  ran  to  the  window  and  stared  with 
big  eyes.  That  was  certainly  Berta  slipping 
along  the  road  to  Mittenplat^.  He  stood  look- 
ing after  her,  his  face  puckered  up  to  cry;  but 
all  at  once  it  occurred  to  him  that  now  he  could 
run  away.  He  turned  back  into  the  room,  and 
the  silence  and  loneliness  deterred  him.  The 
flutes  piped  along  the  road,  and  the  bells  tinkled; 
but  now  there  was  fear  in  the  sounds,  and  his 
face  became  graver. 

"It's  drefful  hard  to  run  away  when  there's 
nobody  to  run  away  from,"  he  sighed. 

But  he  had  given  the  word  of  a  gentleman. 
He  found  his  snow-shoes,  and  put  them  on  very 
slowly;  he  had  never  dressed  himself  before, 
and  his  gaiters  proved  too  much  for  him.  So 
also  did  his  overcoat,  which  refused  to  meet  his 
arms.  At  last,  after  manful  struggles,  he  got 
both  arms  into  the  sleeves.  By  this  time  the 
coat  was  turned  inside  out,  and  the  plaid  lining 
worn  outside  made  Boykin  look  like  a  Swiss  boy. 
He  caught  up  his  cap,  walked  soberly  out  of  the 
house,  and  past  the  children  gathered  before 
the  church.  The  flutes  and  garlands  and  gay 
196 


Marie 

toboggans  heartened  him.  As  soon  as  he  was 
out  of  sight  he  ran  till  he  reached  the  pine  wood. 
Then  he  crouched  down  behind  a  snowdrift  and 
waited  for  the  procession.  Meanwhile,  Miss 
Busybody  was  in  her  room,  waiting  for  Marie. 
The  last  sleigh,  the  last  shrill  flute  had  gone 
towards  Pitzen,  and  still  Marie  did  not  come. 
Miss  Busybody  craned  from  the  window.  Under 
the  window  she  could  see  her  toboggan,  its  dec- 
orations shrouded  by  an  old  rug.  Why  didn't 
Marie  come?  Everybody  had  gone,  and  she 
would  be  too  late  to  join  the  procession.  Her 
eyes  filled;  she  stamped  her  foot  in  a  passion. 
And  Boykin  would  wait  in  the  pine  wood,  and 
they  would  not  be  in  the  procession,  and  then  he 
would  say  she  was  a  girl  and  not  an  honourable 
man.  And  he  would  never  speak  to  her  again — 
and  he  would  marry  Philippa. 

At  this  point  Miss  Busybody  screamed, 
"Marie!  Marie!  Oh,  Marie,  why  don't  you 
come?"  But  now  her  voice  was  muffled  by  tears. 
There  came  in  answer  a  distant  tinkle  of  bells,  a 
jangle  of  far-away  music,  the  faint  shouts  of 
children.  She  looked  out  of  the  window  again. 
Marie  was  not  in  sight.  A  sudden  resolution 
calmed  her  face  and  arrested  the  tears.  She 
turned  back  into  the  room,  grave  and  purpose- 
ful. It  was  no  use  waiting  for  Marie;  she  must 
go  alone.  She  must  keep  her  word  to  take  Boy- 
kin  to  Bergstein.  Her  red  cloak  lay  ready  on 
197 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

the  bed.     She  passed  it  by  and  put  on  a  black 
coat. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Miss  Busybody?"  said 
Dr.  Engel,  who  met  her  on  the  stairs.  He  lifted 
her  up  and  kissed  her,  and  his  eyes  clouded. 
She  wriggled  down  from  his  arms. 

"I'm  going  to  Boykin, "  she  answered. 

She  hurried  out  of  the  hotel,  and  took  her 
toboggan  and  set  out.  Every  one  was  at  lunch, 
the  road  was  still  deserted;  it  stretched  before 
her  white  and  gleaming  in  the  sun  like  polished 
silver. 

She  ran  along,  her  toboggan  bumping  behind 
her,  until  she  came  in  sight  of  the  peasants  out- 
side the  church  at  Pitzen.  Then  she  slackened 
pace  and  walked  past  them  slowly.  Her  heart 
was  thumping,  but  her  head  was  lifted  with 
splendid  courage.  No  one  spoke  to  her.  At 
the  bend  of  the  road  she  ran  again,  and  arrived 
breathless  at  the  pine  wood.  There  she  saw  the 
print  of  Boykin's  feet  in  the  snow,  and  above  the 
drift  the  peak  of  a  red  cap. 

"Boys  is  sillier'n  girls,"  she  said.  "If  Marie 
had  corned,  she'd  have  catched  Boykin  by  his 
cap.  I  "membered  to  wear  my  black  coat." 

She  dragged  her  toboggan  round  the  drift, 
and  came  full  on  Boykin,  huddled  together  in  a 
heap.  Relief  brightened  his  face  at  the  sight  of 
Miss  Busybody.  He  was  all  at  once  valiant. 

"I'm  a  brave  boy,"   he  said.     "I'm  braver 


Marie 

than  a  girl.  I'm  almost  as  brave  as  a  soldier. 
I  runned  away  all  by  myself,  and  walked  miles 
and  miles — fifty  miles,  I  believe." 

"That's  nothing!"  said  Miss  Busybody. 
"I've  corned  from  Mittenplatz,  and  that  is  a 
very  great  distance.  It  must  be  more'n  a  hun- 
dred miles." 

"Where's  Marie?"  said  Boykin. 

"Marie?  Oh,  I  b'lieve  Marie  is  at  Bergstein, 
waiting  for  us."  Miss  Busybody  lied  boldly, 
blushing.  "And  anyhow,  Boykin,"  she  added, 
"if  she  does  come,  she  will  see  your  red  cap  and 
send  you  back  to  Berta. " 

"I  won't  go,"  said  Boykin.  "I'll  put  on 
your  tarn;  there!"  He  snatched  Miss  Busy- 
body's cap  from  her  head  and  put  it  on. 

"But  my  hair  will  come  out  of  curl!"  she 
cried ;  "and  Marie  will  find  me  if  I  wear  your  red 
cap." 

"Put  something  over  your  head,  like  the  other 
little  girls.  Then  they  won't  think  you  are 
proud  and  wear  a  hat,"  said  Boykin. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Busybody;  "and  when 
they  come  we'll  tie  our  toboggan  onto  theirs, 
and  they'll  think  we  are  Swiss,  too." 

She  tied  her  neckerchief  over  her  head,  and 
the  two  crouched  behind  the  drift  and  waited  for 
the  procession. 

"But  I  don't  know  what  to  say  if  they  ask  us 
anything,"  Boykin  whispered. 
199 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"You  must  roll  your  eyes  up,  so,  like  Marie, 
and  say:  'This  is  the  little  maiden  of  my  heart. 
We  love  each  other  with  great  gladness,  and  we 
marry  each  other. ' ' 

"But,  Miss  Busybody,  I'm  'fraid  that  would 
not  be  quite  the  truth, "  said  Boykin.  "I  think  — 
I  think  I'm  engaged  to  Philippa.  I  kissed  her. 
She  is  a  velly  pleasant  person." 

"Philippa  is  nearly  married  to  Dr.  Engel 
already.  And  besides,  she  doesn't  like  kisses. 
I  asked  her  why  she  didn't  kiss  Dr.  Engel,  and 
she  told  me  so.  I  know  it  was  the  truth, 
because  he  was  there,  and  he  heard  her,  and  he 
got  very  red.  And  I  asked  her  if  it  was  because 
he  had  a  prickly  beard,  and — oh,  Boykin!  they're 
coming!" 

She  pointed  to  the  road,  and  Boykin  seized 
her  hand,  and  they  stood  up  together,  trem- 
bling. 

All  around  them  was  the  snow,  and  over  them 
the  deep  blue  arch  of  the  sky.  And  far  away, 
where  the  white  met  the  blue  on  the  edge  of  the 
Pitzenberg,  there  was  a  flash  of  moving  colour 
and  a  piping  of  flutes.  Along  the  road  it  came, 
the  swift  wonder  of  flags  and  garlands  and 
music,  and  the  children  crushed  each  other's 
hand,  holding  their  breath. 

The  procession  was  tailing  to  Bergstein.  First 
came  a  sleigh  drawn  by  four  grey  horses,  with 
bells  and  garlands;  and  in  the  sleigh  were  the 


Marie 

pipers  whose  notes  stirred  the  valley  from  the 
sheeted  snow  up  to  the  gaunt  forest-tops. 

Behind  the  sleigh  the  little  peasants  rode  on 
toboggans  tied  in  pairs,  a  long  line  that  swayed 
and  screamed  and  laughed  with  the  lurching  of 
the  horses. 

Each  toboggan  was  decked  with  flags  and 
wreaths  of  flowers,  and  the  boy  guiding  it  wore 
a  garland  of  pine  across  his  breast  and  paper 
roses  in  his  hat.  The  girl  sitting  behind  him 
was  splendid  in  many-hued  ribbons,  and  the  pro- 
cession wound  like  a  broken  rainbow  on  the  snow. 

Miss  Busybody  drew  a  deep  breath;  it  was  all 
so  pretty.  But  she  had  not  time  to  admire. 
They  were  coming!  She  dragged  Boykin  and 
the  toboggan  to  the  side  of  the  road. 

"Achtung!  Achtung!"  she  shouted,  above  the 
noise  of  bells  and  pipes.  "Achtung!  Achtung!" 
to  the  man  driving  the  sleigh. 

The  little  toboggan,  magnificent  in  yellow 
flags  and  red  roses,  had  already  caught  his  eye. 
He  handed  the  reins  to  another  man.  The  pace 
slackened;  the  horses  stopped.  He  jumped 
down,  ran  along  the  line,  tied  the  toboggan  at 
the  end,  set  the  two  children  on  it,  and  ran  back 
to  his  horses.  In  another  minute  Boykin  and 
Miss  Busybody  were  bumping  and  swaying  and 
screaming  along  the  road. 

The  giddy  delight  of  it,  the  fun  and  the  excite- 
ment were  enough;  they  had  no  time  for 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

thought  till  they  reached  Bergstein.  Then  they 
found  that,  in  spite  of  their  disguise,  they  had  no 
share  in  the  fest.  They  followed  the  children 
into  a  barn,  and  stood  shyly  watching  while  the 
peasants  ate  strange  Swiss  cakes  and  dipped 
their  wooden  spoons  into  the  great  bowl  of  curds 
and  honey.  By  and  by  they  tired  of  being 
onlookers.  It  was  a  dull  fest.  They  wished 
they  were  back  at  home. 

"Let's  go  home,"  said  Boykin,  in  a  loud 
whisper.  "I  love  you,  Miss  Busybody,  and  I 
don't  intend  to  marry  Philippa.  We'll  go  home 
and  get  married." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Busybody;  "we'll  get  mar- 
ried; then  I  won't  have  a  nurse,  and  Marie  can 
marry  Jakob  Meyer." 

"No,  she  can't,"  Boykin  said;  "he's  going  to 
marry  Ber.ta.  She  will  betroth  to  him  on  Sun- 
day. I  heard  her  tell  cook." 

They  were  on  the  road,  and  they  stood  out  of 
the  way  of  a  sleigh  that  was  coming  towards 
them. 

The  woman  in  the  sleigh  was  smiling  very 
much.  The  eyes  she  turned  to  the  man  were 
glad  and  tender.  Marie  had  played  well;  the 
game  was  in  her  hand.  Jakob  was  driving  her 
to  Siilschen  to  see  his  mother.  They  would 
return  to  Mittenplatz  pledged  lovers;  and  next 
Sunday  she,  and  not  Berta,  would  drive  with 
Jakob  in  the  Procession  of  the  Betrothed. 

202 


Marie 

All  at  once  the  gladness  dropped  from  her 
face.  She  had  caught  sight  of  the  flags  and 
roses  of  Miss  Busybody's  toboggan.  And  there 
was  the  child  herself,  standing  with  Boykin  on 
the  road,  ten  miles  from  home! 

Marie  grew  pale,  but  fear  for  herself  was  as 
great  as  fear  for  her  charge.  Jakob's  mood  was 
not  to  be  trusted;  his  fidelity  was  lightly  bal- 
anced between  herself  and  Berta.  If  he  was 
thwarted  now,  and  they  took  the  children  home, 
she  knew  well  that  Berta  and  not  she  would 
drive  with  him  next  Sunday  in  the  Procession  of 
the  Betrothed.  But  her  duty!  She  tried  not  to 
see  the  forlorn-looking  little  creatures  toiling 
along  the  road. 

How  had  they  got  there?  And  had  the  Frau- 
lein  Philippa  forgotten  her  promise  to  take 
charge  of  Miss  Busybody  that  afternoon?  And 
how  would  they  walk  those  ten  miles  back  to  the 
Mittenthal?  They  could  not  get  home  before 
dark ;  she  could  see  the  tired  little  feet  trudging 
through  the  night.  She  heard  their  frightened 
cries.  Her  heart  melted.  She  could  not  buy 
her  own  happiness  at  such  a  price. 

Her  eyes  were  hopeless  when  she  laid  her 
hand  on  Jakob's  arm.  "Seest  thou,  Jakob,  the 
little  naughty  ones?" 

Jakob  looked  stupidly  before  him. 

44 Ja  wohl." 

"Thou  must  stop,  Jakob.  I  may  not  go  with 
203 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

thee  to  see  the  dear  mother."  The  tears  broke 
from  her  eyes.  "Thou  seest  I  must  take  the 
naughty  ones  to  their  homes." 

She  looked  pleadingly  into  Jakob's  puzzled 
face.  His  mind  slowly  grasped  the  significance 
beyond  the  words.  Marie  refused  to  go  on  to 
Siilschen  after  he  had  hired  a  sleigh  for  her. 
What  then?  Berta  would  be  willing  enough 
to  drive  with  him  next  Sunday. 

"The  little  one  is  an  angel  of  sweetness," 
Marie  sobbed.  "I  may  not  leave  her  to  suffer. 
Thou  wilt  let  me  go,  Jakob?" 

"Jawohl, "  said  Jakob,  grimly,  drawing  in  the 
reins. 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  shout  from  the 
children : 

"Marie!  Marie!  dear  Marie!" 

They  ran  together  to  the  sleigh. 

"Oh,  Marie!  have  you  come  for  us?  We  are 
so  tired.  We  want  to  go  home.  We'll  drive 
home  with  you  and  Jakob  in  the  sleigh." 

Marie  looked  timidly  into  Jakob's  face. 

"Wilt  thou  drive  us  back,  Jakob?" 

"  Ja  wohl, "  he  said,  sullenly.  But  so  he  would 
get  back  to  Berta  more  quickly. 

"Hurrah,  Jakob!"  Boykin  cried.  "And  I 
will  sit  on  your  knee  and  hold  the  reins." 

Before  his  sentence  was  finished  he  had  clam- 
bered into  the  sleigh  and  was  on  Jakob's  knee. 
Miss  Busybody  was  climbing  up  the  other  side. 
204 


Marie 

Marie  helped  her  in,  and  tied  her  toboggan  to 
the  back  of  the  sleigh. 

"Hurrah!  hurrah!  Now  we  go  home!"  Boy- 
kin  snapped  the  whip.  Jakob  turned  the  horses 
towards  Mittenplatz. 

"Now  we  are  quite,  quite  happy,"  said  Miss 
Busybody,  with  a  comfortable  sigh.  "And  we 
are  a  procession  ourselves.  We  love  each  other, 
and  are  betrothed — Boykin  and  me,  Marie  and 
Jakob.  Do  you  love  Marie  velly  much,  Jakob?" 

Jakob  cleared  his  throat,  but  maintained  a 
sulky  silence.  His  face  wore  a  scowl.  He  was 
thinking  of  Berta's  black  eyebrows. 

"Do  you,  Jakob,  do  you?"  Miss  Busybody 
persisted  when  he  did  not  answer,  and  Boykin 
looked  up  and  echoed: 

"Do  you  love  Marie,  Jakob?  Do  you  love 
Marie?  do  you,  Jakob?" 

"Ja  wohl,"  Jakob  growled,  seeing  that  he 
could  not  escape  an  answer. 

Miss  Busybody  clapped  her  hands.  "Now  we 
go  home  with  mirth  and  great  gladness.  And 
Boykin  and  me  will  be  married.  And  you  will 
marry  Marie,  too,  won't  you,  Jakob?" 

And  Boykin  looked  gravely  at  him :  "Won't 
you,  Jakob?" 

"Ja  wohl,"  said  Jakob,  stolidly. 

Miss  Busybody  gave  a  long  sigh.  "I'm  velly 
much  relieved,"  she  said.  "I  was  'fraid  you 


205 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

would  marry  Berta.  Berta  is  not  kind  like 
Marie;  she  pulls  Boykin's  hair." 

"She  slapped  me  once,"  Boykin  said,  pen- 
sively; "and  my  father  said  she  had  a  devil  of  a 
temper." 

Miss  Busybody  nestled  closer  against  Marie. 
"I  love  Marie,"  she  said;  "she  is  kind.  She 
gives  me  centimes  for  the  hen  that  lays  the  eggs 
with  the  booful  mottoes." 

Marie  wiped  the  tears  on  her  face,  and  smiled. 
"Ach!  the  angel  little  one!" 

"And  my  uncle  says,"  Miss  Busybody  went 
on,  "that  when  Marie  is  married  he  will  give  her 
a  frock  and  lots  of  money,  because  she  is  good. 
Will  you  be  married  to  Marie  velly  soon,  Jakob?" 

Jakob  did  not  answer.  At  last  Boykin  inter- 
rupted his  thoughts. 

"Will  you  be  married  to  Marie  velly  soon? 
Will  you,  Jakob?" 

Jakob's  face  had  cleared.  He  snapped  his 
whip  and  made  the  horse  trot. 

"Ja  wohl!"  he  said,  cheerily.  Then  he 
smiled  at  Marie. 


206 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    ROYSTONS 


It  was  early  winter,  three  years  before  Philippa 
had  come  to  the  Mittenthal.  That  year  the 
frost  had  caught  and  bound  the  lake  suddenly. 
From  Pitzen  to  the  Griinwald  it  was  a  smooth 
stretch  of  smoked  glass,  darker  for  the  light 
snow  that  lay  on  the  fields  and  mountains.  Here 
and  there  the  shadows  of  the  hills  threw  a  deeper 
fold  of  night  on  the  lake;  and  skating  in  and  out 
of  the  shadows,  in  and  out  of  the  bands  of  moon- 
light, Royston  and  Adelaide  Gower  swayed 
along  the  ice.  Where  the  stream  ran  that  fed 
the  lake  the  ice  was  still  thin,  and  a  row  of 
poles  shouted  warning  in  the  silence.  The  two 
skaters  seldom  spoke.  Royston  was  guiding  the 
girl,  their  hands  intertwined,  and  the  loneliness, 
the  moonlight,  the  measured  motion,  held  him 
in  a  dream.  He  could  have  gone  on  like  that 
forever,  held  to  life  only  by  the  closeness  of  the 
girl's  clasp. 

"We  are  on  the  thin'ice!" 

Her  voice,  shrill  and  startled,  rang  suddenly. 
207 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

He  woke,  and  the  next  instant  swung  out  be- 
yond the  poles.  Then  he  laughed. 

"Little  coward!  Did  you  think  you  were  in 
danger?" 

"What  else?"  she  said,  petulantly.  "Thin 
ice  and  thirty  feet  of  water.  If  we  had  gone  in, 
we  must  have  been  drowned." 

He  smiled  confidently.  "You  at  least  would 
have  been  saved." 

"At  the  cost  of  your  life?"  Her  voice  soft- 
ened. 

"Why  not?  It's  no  hardship  to  die  in  saving 
another  life." 

She  shuddered.  "I  couldn't  do  it;  I  love  my 
life  too  much.  I  love  it  so  much  I  would  accept 
it  at  any  cost."  The  soft  voice  made  the  words 
harder. 

"Fortunately,"  Royston  said,  drily,  "there  is 
no  need  to  sacrifice  any  one's  life." 

"And  even  if  you  had  fished  me  out,  I  might 
have  died  from  the  chill,"  she  said,  musingly. 

He  had  to  laugh;  she  was  so  frankly  selfish. 
Then  his  face  softened.  "I  forgot  that  you  are 
a  delicate  little  thing.  You  are  always  so  gay 
one  doesn't  think  of  you  as  an  invalid." 

"I'm  not  an  invalid,"  she  cried.  "I'm  quite 
strong.  I  can  do  everything  that  other  people 
do,  except  leave  the  Mittenthal. " 

"But  that  is  hardest  of  all!  This  place  is 
glorious  for  a  short  stay,  or  if  one  is  ill,  but  I 
208 


should  hate  it  if  I  were  condemned  to  live  in  it 
all  my  life." 

"Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't!  The  mountains  have 
a  fascination.  After  you  have  once  felt  it,  it's 
impossible  to  live  anywhere  else.  Besides,  some- 
thing pleasant  comes  along  every  day  to  make 
you  forget  you  are  a  prisoner.  To-night,  for 
instance,  makes  up  for  all  I  have  suffered 
here." 

"But  that  is  absurd,"  he  said,  practically. 
"How  can  an  hour's  skating  atone  for  years  of 
suffering?" 

There  was  a  conscious  note  in  her  laugh. 
"Oh,  I  don't  know;  but  I  am  happy.  I  like  all 
this — the  mystery,  the  moonlight,  gliding  on 
and  on,  alone  with  you." 

Royston  could  not  fail  to  understand  the 
stress  on  the  last  word.  When  he  spoke  next 
there  was  a  perceptible  dryness  in  his  manner. 

"We  ought,  perhaps,  to  be  going  back  now, 
Miss  Gower. " 

"So  soon?"  she  cried,  dismayed.  "It  can't 
be  nine  yet.  Besides,  I  want  to  have  some  sup- 
per at  the  Grtinwald. " 

He  looked  at  the  head  of  the  lake,  a  mile 
away,  where  the  light  of  the  hotel  twinkled,  and 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Of  course — if  you  want  supper.  But  it  is 
later  than  you  think."  He  stopped  and  glanced 
towards  Pitzen,  expecting  her  to  agree  to  their 
209 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

return,  but  she  remained  silent.  The  impatient 
tap  of  her  skate  on  the  ice  was  the  only  sound. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  and  struck 
out  towards  the  Griinwald.  But  the  charm  of 
the  night  was  over.  He  even  wished  that  he  had 
refused  to  go  when  she  had  proposed  this  moon- 
light skating.  They  had  not  been  wise  to  come 
alone,  either.  If  the  ice  had  broken  just  now, 
there  would  have  been  no  help  at  hand. 

"You  are  very  dull!"  She  lifted  a  pouting 
face  to  his. 

"Am  I?  By  the  way,  I  thought  some  of  the 
other  men  were  coming." 

"They  spoke  of  it.  The  Professor  changed 
his  mind  at  the  last  moment.  But  don't  you 
like  it  better  without  them?" 

Her  voice  was  sharp.  There  was  an  edge, 
too,  in  her  silence  when  he  did  not  answer. 

At  the  end  of  the  lake  he  took  off  her  skates. 
They  climbed  the  slippery  path  to  the  Griinwald 
without  speaking.  But  supper  restored  their 
good  temper,  and  he  sat  on,  amused  at  her 
chatter,  till  the  clock  striking  made  him  start  up. 

"Eleven  o'clock!  Impossible!  We  must  go  at 
once.  We  can't  get  back  before  midnight.  Are 
you  ready,  Miss  Gower?" 

She  looked  at  his  disturbed  face,  and  laughed. 

"But,  Mr.  Royston,  the  hour  is  not  criminal." 

"My  thoughtlessness  is,"  he  answered.  "You 
should  have  been  asleep  an  hour  ago." 


The  Roystons 

'Nonsense!  This  is  great  fun.  Besides,  I 
would  rather  have  one  hour  like  this  with  you 
than — "  She  stopped. 

Royston  laughed  awkwardly.  He  assured 
himself  there  was  nothing  in  the  words.  The 
girl  was  always  frank. 

Well,  they  could  only  make  the  best  of  the 
adventure.  It  would  be  pleasant  enough  to  go 
gliding  along  the  ice  under  the  moon.  He  would 
take  the  good  of  the  moment,  and  leave  the 
consequences.  He  caught  Adelaide's  hand,  and 
they  swung  out  on  the  black  track  of  ice,  singing 
a  skating  song  they  had  learned  that  year  in  the 
Mittenthal. 

"  In  the  ice  on  which  we  hover 

We  but  see  the  mirrored  moon, 
As  we  chase  the  brightness  of  her 

On  the  ringing  iron  shoon — 
But  the  black  abyss  is  under, 

And  the  silence  and  the  wonder 
Of  the  sleeping  night  lagoon; 

And  black  as  death 

Is  all  beneath; 
And  the  thawing  cometh  soon." 

"I  don't  like  the  words,"  she  said,  when  they 
stopped.  "They  are  stupid  and  solemn.  Why 
should  we  be  reminded  of  death?  Oh,  there  is 
nothing  better  than  life!  It  is  good  to  live,  to 
see  the  moonlight  and  the  great  mountains,  and 
to  taste  the  cold.  One  drinks  joy  in  this  air, 
and  the  silence  is  like  wine." 

211 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Youth  is  better  than  life,"  he  answered. 
"To  feel  the  blood  swing  in  the  veins — to  know 
that  one  has  power  and  time  to  carve  one's 
future." 

"But  what  is  youth?"  she  asked. 

"That  is  youth — to  see  life  and  to  be  glad;  to 
see  death,  and  not  to  fear  it." 

He  felt  her  fingers  close  tighter  on  his. 

"I  fear  death,"  she  whispered.  "You  called 
me  a  coward  to-night,  and  it  is  true.  Dr.  Engel 
says  I  am  quite  well,  yet  I  dare  not  go  away  from 
the  Mittenthal  lest  I  should  get  ill  again  and 
die." 

"Poor  little  girl!  If  I  could  save  you  from 
death,  I  would.  It  would  be  work  worth  doing." 

"But  you  are  doing  fine  work,  aren't  you?  I 
heard  about  the  speeches  you  made  last  session. " 

"They  were  nothing.  But  I  hope  to  make  a 
career  for  myself." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  saw  a  wavering 
determination  on  his  face. 

"I  believe  you  could  do  anything  that  you 
tried  to  do,"  she  cried,  enthusiastically. 

"I  should  try  to  do  anything  that  I  ought  to 
do." 

"You  talk  like  an  old  man,"  she  said;  "yet 
you  have  the  great  gift  of  youth.  I  don't  want 
your  great  gift  if  it  makes  you  solemn.  Laughter 
is  a  greater  gift — things  joyous,  and  mirth  and 
love." 


The  Roystons 

"You  almost  persuade  me  that  the  greatest 
of  these  is  love."  He  smiled  at  her  as  he 
spoke.  Yes,  he  was  almost  persuaded.  She  was 
pretty  and  charming.  A  wave  of  passion  swept 
him  off  his  feet.  Wasn't  the  greatest  thing  in 
life  love? 

But  in  another  moment  he  regained  his  emo- 
tional footing.  They  had  come  to  the  bank. 
He  busied  himself  with  her  skates,  and  they  took 
the  road  through  Pitzen,  neither  speaking. 

Adelaide  was  shy  and  subdued.  Royston 
wondered  if  she  could  have  read  his  thoughts, 
that  her  manner  was  so  conscious. 

A  little  way  from  the  hotel  they  met  the  Pro- 
fessor, Dr.  Engel,  and  some  others,  carrying 
ice-ladders  and  ropes.  Their  late  return  had 
spread  rumours  of  an  accident. 

The  search-party  turned  back  with  them,  the 
Professor  shouting  that  it  was  always  a  mistake 
to  be  guided  by  feelings  of  humanity.  The  Royal 
was  lighted  still,  and  full  of  excitement.  Fear- 
ing an  accident,  no  one  had  gone  to  bed.  Ade- 
laide escaped,  laughing,  from  their  questions; 
but  next  morning  she  faced  a  sentiment  from 
which  escape  was  not  so  easy.  When  she  ap- 
peared on  the  balcony  where  the  invalids  sunned 
themselves,  there  was  a  sudden  hush  in  the  talk. 
In  the  drawing-room  it  was  the  same  thing. 
The  gossips  were  discussing  her  night  adven- 
ture, and  with  no  gentleness. 
213 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

Coming  into  the  reading-room  late  that  night, 
Royston  found  her  huddled  up  in  a  corner  behind 
the  Lady,  in  abject  misery. 

He  had  not  spoken  to  her  all  day — indeed  he 
had  shunned  her;  and  now  he  went  to  her 
reluctantly. 

"Aren't  you  feeling  well?"  he  said,  stiffly. 

She  screened  her  face  behind  the  paper,  but 
he  heard  her  low  sobs. 

"Something  has  happened,"  he  said,  dis- 
tressed. "Won't  you  tell  me  what  makes  you 
cry  like  this?"  He  sat  down  beside  her,  and 
gently  drew  aside  the  paper.  She  lifted  her 
face,  all  pale  and  downcast. 

"These  horrid,  gossiping  women!"  she  sobbed. 
"I  hate  them  all!  Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  What 
shall  I  do?" 

Royston's  brow  knitted.  He  knew  what  scan- 
dal was  saying. 

"You  would  surely  not  notice  a  set  of  idle 
tongues!"  he  said. 

"Oh,  but  I  do!"  she  wailed.  "It  makes  me 
wretched.  I  know  what  gossip  is  in  a  place  like 
this.  A  sentence  is  enough — to  take  away  a 
reputation — and  that  they  should  say  such 
things — of  me — "  She  broke  off,  moaning. 

Royston's  face  was  stormy.  He  sat  still  and 
said  nothing.  Presently  she  lifted  herself. 

"It  is  easy  for  you  to  sit  there,"  she  said, 


214 


The  Roystons 

plaintively.  "You  don't  care.  You  are  a  man, 
and  you  don't  care.  But  for  me  it  is  different. 
You  can't  understand  what  it  means  to  a  girl  to 
be  told  that  she — that  she  is — compromised." 

She  hid  her  face  again,  and  her  body  shook 
with  her  weeping.  Royston  looked  at  her  in 
great  perplexity,  his  mouth  hardening. 

All  this  emotion  seemed  to  him  forced  and 
exaggerated.  He  had  already  been  told  that  he 
had  compromised  the  girl,  but  the  thing  had 
seemed  too  trivial.  He  could  not  understand 
that  any  one  should  give  it  a  moment's  serious 
consideration,  and  here  was  Adelaide  breaking 
her  heart  over  it.  How  soft  and  white  she 
looked — colourless  but  for  the  garnets  round  her 
neck. 

Her  trouble  softened  him,  and  he  tried  to 
reason  it  away.  But  it  was  of  no  use.  "Com- 
promised" was  the  point  on  which  all  his  argu- 
ments were  impaled. 

"Go  away,"  she  said.  "What  do  you  care? 
You  are  a  man,  and  you  can't  understand.  You 
bring  all  this  on  me,  and  then  you  leave  me  to 
bear  it  alone." 

"But,  my  good  girl — " 

"Don't!" 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  The  light  ran  along 
her  necklace  like  a  circle  of  fire. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  brave  man,"  she  said, 


315 


panting  between  each  word;  "you  are  not.  You 
are  like  all  the  rest.  What  does  it  matter  if  the 
woman  suffers?  You  are  free. " 

Royston  made  a  step  forward,  his  face  pale 
and  set.  "Tell  me  how  I  make  you  suffer." 

She  shrank  from  the  anger  in  his  eyes;  her 
eyelids  quivered  and  drooped. 

"It  is  horrrible, "  she  faltered.  "You  will  go 
away,  and  it  will  be  nothing  to  you.  But.  peo- 
ple are  always  hard  on  women.  I  have  to  stay 
here — and — and — ' ' 

"Finish,"  he  said,  curtly. 

"I  shall  not  be  asked  anywhere  any  more, 
because — people  will  say  I  am  not — quite — nice. 
And  I  can't  bear  it." 

She  ran  from  him,  and  threw  herself  again  on 
the  sofa,  and  hid  her  face  in  the  cushion. 

Royston  remained  staring  at  her,  and  as  he 
looked  the  lines  of  his  mouth  gathered  strength, 
though  the  light  in  his  eye  was  uncertain.  At 
last  he  spoke,  and  the  words  dropped  from  him 
one  by  one,  colourless  and  dead. 

"There  is  one  way  in  which  it  may  be  borne — 
if  you  are  my  wife.  Will  you  give  me  the  right 
to  silence  this  gossip?" 

Adelaide  looked  up.  A  sudden  light  darted 
through  the  storm  in  her  eyes. 

"Your  wife?     To  marry  you?" 

"Yes."  The  word  seemed  wrung  from  him 
against  his  will. 

216 


The  Roystons 

Her  lips  parted.  A  quick  happiness  tossed  its 
light  about  her. 

"Ah!"  She  drew  a  long  breath.  "This  was 
what  you  meant  last  night  when  you  said  love 
was  best — you  love  me?" 

Her  eager  eyes  did  not  wait  for  an  answer 
from  his.  They  seemed  to  be  darting  from 
thought  to  thought,  and  missed  the  irresolution 
on  his  face. 

"Love  is  best,"  he  answered.  Then  he  held 
out  his  hand  to  her.  "Then  you  will  be  my  wife?" 

She  sprang  to  him  and  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  What  do  I  care  for  anybody 
so  long  as  you  love  me?"  The  pressure  of  her 
lips  fired  the  man's  passion.  His  arms  closed 
round  her.  "Love  is  best!  Love  is  best!  Love 
is  best!"  The  words  rained  among  his  kisses. 

It  was  not  till  the  following  week,  when  they 
were  discussing  their  plans,  that  Royston  saw 
what  he  had  done. 

"Leave  the  Mittenthal?"  Adelaide  laughed. 
"Not  for  worlds!  I  should  die  in  a  month.  I 
can  only  live  in  the  high  air.  No;  you  must 
live  here  with  me." 

"But,  my  child,  my  work  is  in  London." 

"Bring  your  work  here." 

He  laughed  constrainedly.  "You  forget  that 
I  am  in  the  House." 

217 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Then  you  must  give  it  up." 

She  spoke  quite  simply  and  decisively.  Roy- 
ston  turned  away,  biting  his  lips.  He  had 
learned  the  uselessness  of  arguing  with  her,  but 
it  was  maddening  that  she  should  speak  so  calmly 
of  sacrificing  his  career.  And  why  should  it  be 
sacrificed?  If  she  would  not  leave  the  Mitten- 
thai,  their  engagement  must  come  to  an  end. 

She  had  no  right  to  keep  him  in  the  valley  for 
a  whim.  He  took  two  or  three  hurried  turns 
about  the  room.  Then  he  moved  slowly  round 
to  the  sofa  where  she  sat.  She  had  thrown  her 
head  back,  and  was  watching  him  through  half- 
closed  lids.  She  smiled,  and  held  out  her  hands. 

"Well?"  she  laughed,  softly;  "well?" 

"I  must  go,"  he  stammered,  avoiding  her 
eyes.  "My  work  is  everything  to  me." 

"That  was  in  the  past."  She  blew  a  kiss  at 
him.  "Now  love  is  everything  to  you." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  a  dumb  appeal  in  his 
glance.  Her  eyes  held  him  bound. 

Suddenly  she  lifted  herself  and  twisted  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  with  a  child's  irre- 
sponsible tyranny,  drew  him  down. 

"You  are  love's  prisoner.  What  is  your  work 
compared  with  my  happiness?  I  will  not  release 
you." 

He    smiled    bitterly,    feeling    her    arms    like 
chains  about  him.     It  was  true  what  she  said. 
He  was  a  prisoner — but  of  honour,  not  love. 
218 


The  Roystons 

"But  I  thought  only  rich  men  got  into  Parlia- 
ment," she  pouted,  ten  minutes  later. 

Royston  shook  his  head;  his  face  was  very 
pale.  "Not  all.  I  am  a  poor  man.  My  elec- 
tion expenses  were  paid  by  my  uncle.  I  make 
what  income  I  have  by  journalism.  At  my 
uncle's  death  I  shall  be  rich,  but  that  is  not  to 
be  counted  on." 

"Never  mind;  I  have  enough  for  us  both," 
she  said,  cheerfully.  "Money  need  be  no 
obstacle.  And  you  can  still  write. " 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  hesitated.  "I  can  write 
for  magazines,  at  any  rate."  He  knew  that 
Adelaide  was  well  enough  off. 

"Of  course  you  can.  Oh,  we  shall  be  very 
comfortable.  We  will  take  a  pretty  flat,  and 
have  people  to  dinner  every  night.  It  will  be 
great  fun — better  than  hotel  life.  Now,  confess 
that  you  are  a  happy  man.  You  have  youth, 
leisure,  love — all  the  gifts  of  the  gods." 

She  smiled  alluringly,  but  he  gave  her  no 
answering  smile.  His  burnt  out  passion  strewed 
his  life  with  ashes;  it  had  been  like  a  lava- 
stream,  quickly  cooled,  that  now  lay  heavy  on 
life  and  ambition.  But  he  had  bound  himself  to 
the  girl ;  and  honour  stood  like  a  grim  sentinel, 
forbidding  him  to  go  beyond  his  word. 


319 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 


II 

Frowning,  Royston  lifted  his  head  from  his 
writing.  The  walls  were  thin,  and  the  baby's 
crying  sounded  through  them.  The  child  had 
been  crying  all  the  morning,  and  more  than 
once  already  he  had  interrupted  his  work  to 
comfort  it. 

His  eyes  brooded  over  the  scene  in  the  next 
room:  Adelaide  on  the  sofa  in  a  litter  of  fashion 
papers,  too  busy  remodelling  a  gown  to  attend 
to  her  baby. 

His  glance  moved  about  him,  and  grew  darker 
as  it  fell  on  the  disorder  everywhere.  This  was 
his  study,  but  it  might  as  well  have  been  the 
rubbish-room  of  the  flat.  All  the  overflow  of 
the  apartment  was  piled  into  it — saucepans  were 
on  the  stove,  clothes  on  the  sofa,  shoes  strewed 
the  floor,  the  baby's  bath  was  in  the  corner. 

It  was  a  picture  of  the  squalid  life  he  had  lived 
for  three  years,  and  he  ground  his  teeth  as  he 
saw  it.  This  was  the  end  of  his  ambition — a 
loveless  marriage,  a  frivolous  wife,  wasted  days, 
a  house  that  shamed  the  meanest  chalet  in  the 
valley,  and  the  burden  of  a  neglected  child. 

He  laid  his  head  on  his  arms  in  his  misery, 
and  strove  to  find  excuses  for  his  wife.  It  was 
not  altogether  her  fault.  She  was  no  manager, 
220 


The  Roystons 

and  could  not  train  servants.  She  was  not 
strong,  either,  and  since  the  baby's  birth  she 
had  lost  her  energy.  It  was  his  fault,  who  could 
not  afford  to  keep  better  servants  because  he 
earned  so  little  by  his  writing.  In  the  three 
years  he  had  not  made  as  much  money  as  he 
made  in  London  in  one  year.  He  could  not 
control  Adelaide's  expenditure  of  her  income. 
She  wasted  it  on  herself;  but  he  had  not  remon- 
strated with  her  after  the  day  when  she  had 
retorted  by  an  allusion  to  his  poverty. 

It  was  all  the  more  maddening  because  it  was 
she  who  prevented  him  from  going  to  work  in 
London.  There  he  could  have  made  an  income 
and  a  name,  but  here  there  was  nothing  that  a 
man  could  do.  His  youth  was  going,  and  his 
strength.  His  mind  was  worn  by  the  daily  fric- 
tion of  Adelaide's  moods;  his  will  weakened. 
"To  see  death,  and  not  fear  it;  this  is  youth," 
he  had  said.  Now,  "To  see  death,  and  pray  for 
it;  this  is  to  be  old,"  he  knew. 

God!  how  he  longed  for  death  to  end  this 
tragedy  of  waste!  Release  could  only  come  by 
death — his  own  or  his  wife's.  He  jerked  him- 
self away  from  the  thought,  and  sprang  tfp  and 
went  into  the  next  room. 

Adelaide  held  up  an  armful  of  laces  to  him. 
"See  what  a  lovely  bodice  I  have  made  for  to- 
night? Now,  confess  that  you  have  a  clever 
wife." 

221 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"That  child  has  been  crying  for  an  hour,  Ade- 
laide." 

"Yes,  poor  little  mite.  I  think  he  must  have 
inherited  his  bad  temper  from  you.  You  grow 
more  like  a  bear  every  day." 

"Why  don't  you  quiet  him?"  he  said,  restrain- 
edly.  "Can't  you  see  that  he  is  ill?" 

"And  if  he  is,  whose  fault  is  it?  How  can  he 
be  well  when  he  never  goes  out?  Other  fathers 
provide  nurses  and  perambulators  for  their  chil- 
dren."  ("And  the  money  you  have  spent  on 
that  lace  would  have  bought  the  perambulator," 
he  thought. ) 

"He  is  not  heavy,"  he  said  aloud.  "You 
should  let  Rosa  take  him  out." 

"I  want  Rosa  to  do  my  dress,"  she  smiled. 
"You  forget  that  I  am  going  to  the  dance  at  the 
Royal  to-night." 

Royston  turned  away,  lifted  the  child  and 
carried  him  onto  the  balcony,  where  he  walked 
about  with  him  till  he  fell  asleep. 

By  that  time  his  anger  had  cooled.  He  could 
even  pity  the  irresponsible  girl.  Her  taunt  had 
cut.  It  was  he  who  had  failed  to  provide  for  his 
family.  His  power  lay  in  political  writing;  but 
what  use  was  it  to  send  to  London  articles  that 
arrived  when  the  situation  was  a  week  old?  He 
cursed  the  weakness  that  kept  him  tied  to  this 
woman's  will.  She  was  stronger  than  he,  and  he 


222 


The  Roystons 

could  not  free  himself  from  her  arms  round  his 
neck. 

He  had  tried  the  magazines,  but  his  pen  was 
new,  and  it  was  difficult  to  secure  foothold  there. 
He  would  have  taken  a  pupil,  but  he  shrank 
from  disclosing  the  secrets  of  his  household.  He 
wanted  no  witness  to  the  daily  scenes  with  Ade- 
laide. He  had  tried  to  find  pupils  in  the  hotels, 
and  had  failed. 

He  was  fettered  on  every  side;  the  outlook 
was  hopeless.  At  nine  o'clock  that  night  Ade- 
laide came  into  the  study,  where  he  sat  bending 
over  the  child's  cradle.  She  was  in  white  from 
head  to  foot,  except  for  the  garnets. 

"Well,  aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  that  I  look 
nice?"  she  said,  gaily,  tapping  his  shoulder  with 
her  fan. 

He  pointed  to  the  baby,  gasping  in  its  sleep. 
"Child,  child,"  he  groaned,  "have  you  no  heart?" 

She  looked  down  at  the  cradle,  a  swiftly  pass- 
ing tenderness  in  her  face. 

"What  a  poor  white  mite  it  is!"  She  drew  on 
her  glove  slowly  and  thoughtfully.  "Do  you 
know,"  she  went  on  musingly,  "it  is  one  of  the 
disappointments  of  my  marriage  that  I  didn't 
have  a  little  daughter.  It  would  have  been  fun 
to  dress  her  in  pretty  clothes.  But  what  can  you 
do  with  a  boy?" 

"You  might  keep  him  clean,"  said  Royston, 
significantly. 

223 


"And  be  scolded  for  extravagance  in  laundry 
bills?"  she  smiled.  "Ah,  there  is  the  sleigh. 
Bother!  the  bells  have  waked  him!  What  a 
nuisance!" 

The  baby  held  up  his  arms  and  caught  at  the 
red  stones,  and  she  lifted  him  and  kissed  him, 
while  Royston  looked  on  in  a  melting  silence. 

She  was  so  pretty  and  sweet,  holding  the  child 
and  hushing  him  to  sleep  with  the  croon  of  the 
soft,  gliding  song: 

"  In  the  ice  on  which  we  hover 

We  but  see  the  mirrored  moon, 
As  we  chase  the  brightness  of  her 
On  the  ringing  iron  shoon." 

The  sleigh-bells  sounded  again  under  the  win- 
dow, and  she  hastily  gave  the  child  to  her  husband. 

"Take  him,  dear;  I  must  go.  You  are  very 
foolish  no.t  to  come,  too.  You  see  there  is  noth- 
ing wrong  with  baby.  He  only  wants  to  be 
noticed  a  little." 

"I  tell  you  he  is  ill,"  he  answered,  shortly; 
"and  the  illnesses  of  young  children  are  not  to 
be  trifled  with.  My  dear,"  his  anxiety  thrust 
an  entreaty  through  his  impatience,  "don't  leave 
him  to-night.  See  how  soon  you  quiet  him.  The 
poor  little  chap  likes  his  mother  best,  you  know. ' ' 

She  laughed  lightly.  "Booh!  You  are  an  old 
woman!  If  I  listened  to  you,  I  would  never  go 
anywhere.  Bye-bye,  my  baby." 

She  kissed  the  child  and  ran  from  the  room, 
224 


The  Roystons 

and  Royston  paced  the  floor  miserably,  the  boy 
in  his  arms. 

When  he  slept  he  laid  him  in  the  cradle,  and 
sat  down  at  his  desk.  It  would  not  be  his  fault 
if  they  could  not  have  things  different.  Hours 
passed  while  he  wrote,  and  through  his  writing 
throbbed  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  child.  All 
at  once  it  changed  to  a  quick  gasping,  and 
Royston,  springing  up,  saw  the  boy's  limbs  con- 
vulsed. He  shouted  for  Rosa,  asleep  in  the 
kitchen,  and  sent  her  for  Dr.  Engel.  And  then, 
for  an  awful  hour,  alone  and  helpless  in  his 
ignorance,  he  watched  the  tiny  struggle  for  life. 
When  Dr.  Engel  came  at  last  Royston  looked  up 
dumbly.  The  shadow  of  death  was  on  his  face, 
too. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  the  sleigh-bells. 

Royston  lifted  his  head,  and  a  scowl  came  into 
his  eyes.  He  could  not  forgive  the  woman  who 
had  left  her  child  to  die. 

His  stern  face  met  her  when  she  looked  in  at 
the  door,  her  eyes  shining,  her  face  rosy,  hap- 
piness in  every  quick  breath. 

"Such  a  delicious  dance,  Edward!  I  didn't 
sit  out  once,  and — "  She  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor  and  frowned  at  him. 

"Well,  at  least  you  needn't  look  like  a  thun- 
derstorm; I  haven't  done  anything  so  very 
dreadful." 

225 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"You  have  done  this,"  he  said;  and  he  caught 
her  roughly  and  dragged  her  to  the  cradle. 

She  shook  herself  free  of  him,  glanced  down, 
and  gave  a  cry.  "Oh,  who  has  killed  my  little 
baby?" 

''''You  have  killed  him,"  Royston  said. 

She  turned  terrified,  appealing  eyes  to  him, 
but  his  face  was  relentless.  With  an  instinct  of 
protection,  she  snatched  up  the  child,  and  hold- 
ing him  close,  crouched  behind  the  cradle,  sob- 
bing tearlessly.  The  dead  face  lay  pallid  against 
her  bare  bosom.  Presently  she  began  to  rock 
herself,  hushing  the  baby  with  broken  notes  of 
the  song  she  had  sung  to  it  before. 

Royston  could  not  bear  the  sight.  Pity  mas- 
tered him,  and  he  stooped,  and  would  have  taken 
the  child  from  her,  but  her  arms  tightened  and 
she  sprang  up. 

"Don't  touch  him!"  she  cried,  shrilly.  "Don't 
dare  to  touch  him !  You  have  stolen  my  baby's 
last  hours  from  me.  You  might  have  sent  for 
me,  but  you  let  me  go  on  dancing — while  he 
died — that  you  might  say  I  murdered  him. 
Brute!  to  revenge  yourself  so!" 

"I  didn't  think — I  called  Engel— I — " 

But  she  interrupted  furiously:  "Oh,  don't 
speak  to  me!  Go  away!  All  this  misery  is  your 
doing;  I  was  so  happy,  and  since  we  married  I 
haven't  known  what  happiness  is." 

"Adelaide,   my  poor  girl — "     Tears  were  in 
226 


The  Roystons 

Royston's  eyes.  He  stepped  towards  her,  but 
she  moved  backward,  holding  the  dead  child 
between  them. 

"Don't  touch  me!"  she  said,  coldly,  suddenly 
quiet.  "Leave  me;  go  away.  I  never  want  to 
see  your  face  again!" 

The  chill  of  the  words  numbed  him.  His 
strength  left  him  and  his  limbs  shook.  He 
gazed  at  her,  pity  and  weakness  and  pain  in  his 
eyes;  then  he  turned  and  stumbled  out  of  the 
room.  He  sat  gazing  with  smitten  eyes  at  the 
night.  Orion  swung  above  the  gleam  of  a  dag- 
ger. The  stars  died;  clouds  were  folded  about 
the  sky.  Six  o'clock  tolled  out  from  the  tower. 
It  was  another  day.  He  went  into  the  hall,  and 
his  hand  groped  blunderingly  on  the  rack  for  his 
hat.  It  struck  his  skates  hanging  there. 
Mechanically  he  took  them  down,  and  went  out 
of  the  house  and  on  to  the  road.  He  did  not 
choose  his  direction.  He  went  out  blindly, 
whipped  on  by  Adelaide's  voice.  Now  she  was 
saying,  "I  never  want  to  see  your  face  again," 
and  now,  "Since  we  married  I  haven't  known 
what  happiness  is,"  and  now  she  was  singing 
that  horrible  gliding  song  to  the  dead  child. 

The  song  mesmerized  him.  His  feet  crunched 
the  snow  as  he  walked,  but  he  knew  nothing  of 
the  frozen  road  and  the  starless  hour.  He  was 
in  a  dream,  skating  on  the  lake  in  the  moon- 
light, and  Adelaide's  hands  were  warm  in  his. 
227 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

They  burned  like  fire  in  his  palms,  and  made 
him  unconscious  of  the  cold  that  froze  his  blood. 
The  frost  stabbed  the  valley  with  a  thousand 
knives,  but  he  walked  on  untouched.  He 
reached  the  lake.  Above  him  Schwarzberg  and 
Weissberg  stood  cold  and  silent,  looking  down 
at  a  splash  of  night  on  the  snow — the  large  circle 
swept  on  the  lake  for  the  skating.  Beyond  the 
circle  a  long  line  of  blocks  of  ice,  newly  cut, 
looked  like  a  procession  of  ghosts. 

Still  in  a  dream,  Royston  put  on  his  skates  and 
slid  out  on  the  ice.  He  skated  mechanically, 
moving  round  and  round  and  round  that  endless 
circle.  Presently  the  dim  dawn  glided  in  like 
moonlight  over  the  lake.  He  gazed  round  him 
bewildered.  It  was  surely  the  night  he  had 
skated  with  Adelaide.  She  was  skating  here 
beside  hi.m,  singing  of  "the  black  abysses 
under — " 

But  that  was  not  true.     No  one  was  singing. 

The  silence  shocked  into  his  consciousness. 
He  looked  round  him,  and  understood  where  he 
was  and  what  had  driven  him  there.  And 
beyond  that  night's  work  he  saw  clearly  the  work 
of  that  other  night  which  had  fathered  this. 

"What  a  fool  I  was,"  he  thought,  bitterly. 
"What  a  weak  fool.  Honour  was  not  in  the 
question  at  all.  No  gossip  could  have  done  the 
harm  this  marriage  has  done.  I've  sacrificed 
everything  to  my  weakness.  And  it's  done  no 
228 


The  Roystons 

good.  She  hasn't  known  happiness  since  she 
married  me,  while  I  fooled  myself  thinking  she 
at  least  was  happy." 

He  struck  out  recklessly  beyond  the  circle 
towards  the  line  of  blocks  that  crossed  the  lake 
like  a  pale  procession.  He  did  not  notice  the 
poles  that  warned  him  away.  A  sound  like  the 
crack  of  a  pistol  followed  his  curving  path,  but 
he  did  not  heed  it.  He  could  only  hear  Ade- 
laide's voice:  "I  was  so  happy.  All  this  misery 
is  your  doing. " 

Now  here,  now  there,  he  swung  on  his  skates, 
trying  to  get  away  from  the  horror  that  held 
him.  The  awful  cold  of  the  morning  was  in  his 
blood,  benumbing  sensation;  despair  was  in  his 
heart,  stupefying  consciousness.  He  was  close 
to  the  last  blocks,  cut  from  the  lake  the  day 
before,  but  he  did  not  see  them.  He  was  deaf 
to  the  sharp  snapping,  blind  to  the  warning  poles. 

There  was  a  sudden  crack  of  rent  ice,  a  splash, 
a  muffled  cry,  and  the  water  sucked  him  in. 

He  rose  again,  and  struck  out  blindly,  cutting 
his  hands  against  the  edge  of  the  splintered  ice. 
Life  was  strong  in  him,  and  the  instinct  to  live, 
and  he  caught  at  the  floating  ice  that  slipped 
from  his  touch  and  sheered  under  the  water.  If 
he  could  only  reach  the  side  where  the  ice  was 
thicker!  But  the  water  numbed  his  arms,  dulled 
his  strength,  dulled  even  the  desire  for  life. 

While  he  struggled,  the  sobs  of  his  wife 
229 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

rushed  with  the  rushing  waters  in  his  ears,  and 
life  thrilled  again  at  the  sound. 

A  block  floated  beside  him.  Strong  in  his 
desperation,  he  swung  himself  to  it,  caught  at  it, 
and  partly  lifted  himself  from  the  water.  The 
block  was  steady;  he  might  even  yet  gain  foot- 
hold. His  tortured  eyes  fastened  themselves  on 
the  ice,  and  saw  it  splashed  with  drops  of  blood. 
They  were  like  the  round  little  stones  of  Ade- 
laide's necklace.  Under  them,  in  the  pale  ice, 
half-dazed,  he  seemed  to  see  the  gleam  of  the 
dead  child's  face.  Her  voice  rushed  with  the 
rushing  sound  in  his  ears,  "I  never  want  to  see 
your  face  again."  Once  more  the  words  froze 
his  heart.  His  strength  went  from  him,  and  his 
grasp  failed. 

The  ice  shuddered  under  him.  With  a  long, 
gurgling  sob  he  slipped  into  the  night. 

The  ice  shook  itself  free,  rose  again,  and 
quieted  with  the  quieting  water.  Snow  began 
to  fall — thick,  steady  flakes  that  closed  about  the 
line  of  blocks  and  wrapped  them  round  until 
nothing  could  be  seen  of  the  ghostly  procession 
that  had  crossed  the  lake  in  the  dawn. 

"The  child  is  dead.  You  must  let  me  put  him 
in  the  coffin,"  Engel  said. 

Adelaide's  arms  tightened  round  the  baby. 
"If  I  could  only  see  his  face  again,"  she  said, 
blankly.  She  had  been  saying  it  for  twenty-four 
230 


The  Roystons 

hours,  holding  the  child's  mouth  pressed  to  her 
breast.  Engel's  face  was  strained  and  baffled. 
He  could  do  nothing.  He  had  scarcely  left 
Adelaide  since  he  had  heard  of  Royston's  disap- 
pearance. He  was  the  only  person  she  would 
see.  Royston's  skates  were  missing,  too;  but 
whatever  secret  their  absence  whispered  had 
been  hushed  up  by  the  snow.  It's  sheet  was 
spread  across  the  lake  from  end  to  end.  A 
white  pall  of  silence  lay  also  on  Engel's  face. 

The  day  before,  crossing  the  Pitzenberg  in 
the  early  morning,  he  had  heard  sharp,  cracking 
sounds.  He  had  thought  it  was  the  cracking  of 
a  peasant's  whip,  but  it  might  have  been  the 
snap  of  ice.  He  had  not  given  any  importance 
to  it  until  Rosa  had  told  him  that  Royston's 
skates  were  gone.  But  it  was  too  late  then  to 
find  out  the  truth.  The  newly  frozen  ice  was 
covered  with  snow. 

"If  I  could  only  see  his  face  again,"  Adelaide 
moaned. 

"He  may  come  back;  he  may  not  be  dead," 
Engel  said,  gently. 

She  was  still  in  the  low  dress  she  had  worn  at 
the  dance.  It  was  horrible  to  see  the  baby's 
dead  lips  on  the  rose  of  her  bosom. 

"He  is  dead,"  she  answered,  dully.     "I  saw 
him  among  the   Todten-Volk.     He  carried  my 
baby.      He    was    wet    and    dripping.       He    is 
drowned  in  the  lake — " 
231 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"The  lake  is  frozen  from  end  to  end." 

"He  is  there,  drowned.     If  I  could  only  see 

his  face  again!     If  I  could  only  see  his   face 

again!" 

"Let  me  put  the  child  in  its  coffin." 

"No,  no;  the  poor  little  chap  likes  his  mother 

best."     She  tightened  her  arms  again,  and  began 

to  sing,  rocking  backwards  and  forwards: 

"  In  the  ice  on  which  we  hover 

We  but  see  the  mirrored  moon — 

She  stopped,  and  her  gaze  grew  fixed; 

"  But  the  black  abyss  is  under," 
she  went  on; 

"  And  black  as  death 

Is  all  beneath; 
And  the  thawing  cometh  soon." 

"If  I  could  only  see  his  face  again!"  The 
words  came  like  the  refrain  of  the  song. 

Engel's  eyes  were  full.  He  looked  at  her, 
not  knowing  what  to  do.  "She  ought  to  have 
some  woman  with  her,"  he  thought.  But  she 
had  refused  to  see  her  friends,  Frau  Bullen  and 
Simplicity  and  Miss  Blake.  It  seemed  useless 
for  him  to  stay,  but  he  could  not  go  and  leave 
her  alone  there,  nursing  the  dead  baby. 

He    wished    Philippa   had    been   her  friend — 

Philippa,  who  was  gentle  and  sympathetic,  and 

who  knew  death.     She  would  not  jar  on  strained 

nerves.     He  had  seen  her  nursing  Babette,  and 

232 


The  Roystons 

comforting  Sonnie  Baker's  aunt.  She  was  the 
kind  of  woman  who  could  help  other  women. 
She  would  help  this  poor  distraught  creature,  if 
any  one  could. 

He  remembered  that  she  had  asked  him  to  let 
her  work  with  him,  and  he  had  refused  ungra- 
ciously. It  would  be  humiliating  now  to  confess 
that  he  needed  her  help.  Teh!  what  was  his 
humiliation  compared  with  Mrs.  Royston's  need? 
He  wrote  a  note  quickly:  "Will  you  come  and 
help  me?  Mrs.  Royston  needs  you.  I  can  do 
nothing  for  her." 

Philippa  came  back  with  Rosa,  who  had  taken 
the  note.  Engel  met  her  at  the  door.  Philippa 
scarcely  saw  him.  Her  eyes  sprang  past  him 
to  Adelaide  and  the  child.  Engel  never  forgot 
the  look  on  her  face.  She  stooped  to  Adelaide. 

"You  poor  soul!  You  poor  soul!"  The  tears 
ran  down  her  face. 

Adelaide  looked  up  blankly.  "If  I  could  only 
see  his  face  again." 

"You  look  so  tired.  Let  me  hold  baby," 
Philippa  said. 

She  lifted  the  child  and  held  him  to  her.  Her 
tears  were  his  baptism. 

Engel  turned  away  with  a  lump  in  his  throat. 

Adelaide's  eyes  followed  Philippa  dully,  a  kind 
of  dead  jealousy  in  them.  She  watched  her  lay 
the  baby  in  his  little  white  coffin,  and  come  back 
to  her. 

233 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"He  looks  so  happy  in  his  little  bed,"  Philippa 
said,  softly. 

Adelaide's  lips  quivered.  She  burst  into  pas- 
sionate weeping. 

"If  I  could  only  see  my  husband  in  his  coffin!" 
she  moaned. 

The  grey  dawn  wrapped  the  mountains.  The 
houses  and  trees  hung  in  the  mist,  deadly  still. 
An  awful  silence  froze  the  valley.  The  great 
shadow  of  the  winged  angel  hung  low  and  had 
not  yet  lifted. 

People  in  hotel  and  chalet  were  still  dreaming. 
The  eyes  of  the  houses  were  blank  and  lifeless; 
their  lids  closed  to  the  passing  of  quick  and 
dead. 

Along  the  frozen  road  the  steps  of  the  women 
made  no  sound.  They  moved  slowly,  for  the 
child  went  with  them,  and  his  little  feet  had  not 
learned  to  walk.  They  moved  slowly  along  the 
valley,  hedged  about  by  the  silence.  Philippa's 
knees  shook  as  they  went,  but  Adelaide  walked 
steadily.  The  two  faces  wore  the  same  grey. 
The  little  white  coffin  made  a  little  white  bridge 
between  them. 

They  went  with  bowed  heads.  Life  held  only 
the  long  white  road,  the  little  white  bridge,  the 
great  silence. 

The  road  wound  upward  to  the  friedhof. 
When  they  came  in  sight  of  the  gates,  and  the 
234 


The  Roystons 

men  waiting,  Adelaide's  steps  dragged.  She 
took  the  coffin  from  Philippa  and  held  it  against 
her  breast,  and  lifted  her  face. 

"This  is  not  the  grave,"  Philippa  whispered. 

"Six  feet  of  space  for  that  tiny  span  of  life?" 

"His  father's  grave,"  Adelaide  said,  in  a  thick 
voice.  "He  will  come  soon." 

They  stood  gazing  down  at  the  little  white 
bridge  that  was  so  small  it  could  not  unite  the 
two  walls  of  the  grave.  Then  Philippa  took  a 
handful  of  snow  and  let  it  fall  loosely  through 
her  fingers. 

"Snow  to  snow,  ice  to  ice,  star  to  star!"  The 
words  fell  hushed.  The  crystals  fluttered  down 
on  the  little  white  bridge  that  was  so  long  it 
spanned  the  great  gulf  between  death  and  life. 


235 


CHAPTER  XII 

MISS   BUSYBODY 

The  Professor  shuffled  along  the  road  that 
crossed  the  Griinwasser  and  led  to  the  Tannen- 
wald.  He  shuffled  slowly,  his  shoulders  bowed 
under  a  new  weight  of  thought.  The  slant  of 
his  hat  on  his  forehead  was  the  angle  of  depres- 
sion. 

"It -won't  do,  it  won't  do!"  he  muttered  to 
himself.  "This  affair  of  Royston's  is  an  object- 
lesson.  As  well  depend  on  the  devil  himself  for 
an  income  as  on  your  wife.  It  won't  do!  I'll 
tell  her  so  this  very  day.  Nice  woman,  charm- 
ing woman,  sensible  creature — one  in  a  thou- 
sand; but  it  won't  do!  If  poor  Royston  had 
married  her  instead  of  that  butterfly  now!  Ah, 
poor  fellow!  Queer  thing  that  he  should  have 
gone  where  he  knew  the  ice  was  thin — very 
queer,  indeed.  And  queer  that  he  should  have 
been  found  when  they  began  to  cut  the  ice  again. 
Poor  fellow!  Well,  it's  an  object-lesson  to  me 
not  to  set  up  house  on  my  wife's  money.  I'll 
tell  her  it  won't  do."  He  looked  up,  frowning 
fiercely.  "I  tell  you  it  won't  do!"  He  ad- 
dressed himself,  testily. 

236 


Miss  Busybody 

The  Pension  Tannenwald  stood  before  him. 
He  gazed  at  it,  slowly  shaking  his  head.  What 
ghastly  hours  he  had  spent  there!  How  he  had 
missed  Miss  Blake!  He  had  been  miserable 
without  her.  He  would  be  miserable  without 
her  again.  But  no.  He  could  not  do  without 
her.  He  would  tell  her  that  marriage  was 
impossible,  but  they  would  remain  friends. 
They  would  live  in  the  same  place  always; 
inseparable  friends,  but  independent  of  each 
other.  A  laugh  pealed  out,  as  if  in  mockery  of 
his  scheme. 

The  Professor  gave  a  great  start,  and  pushed 
up  his  hat  to  see  who  was  laughing  at  him;  then 
his  brow  smoothed.  It  was  only  that  little  imp 
of  a  Miss  Busybody. 

She  was  dancing  along  the  road,  dragging 
Miss  Blake  with  her.  The  Professor  was  aston- 
ished to  see  that  Miss  Blake  could  run  as  well  as 
Miss  Busybody. 

She  smiled  a  deprecating  smile  as  she  came 
nearer.  "I  offered  to  amuse  the  little  dear," 
she  explained.  "You  have  heard  about  the 
Major?" 

"My  Uncle  Rob  is  velly  ill,"  said  Miss  Busy- 
body, with  importance.  "I  must  be  amused  all 
the  time,  Professor,  because  he  is  velly  ill,  you 
know.  Marie  says  I'll  be  a  bereaved — like  Mrs. 
Royston." 

The  Professor  shuffled  along  with  the  two. 
237 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Marie  says  it's  the  snow  melting  that  makes 
him  ill,"  Miss  Busybody  chattered  on.  "Phil- 
ippa's  going  away  when  the  snow  melts,  but  Miss 
Blake  can't  go,  because  she  has  no  money." 

"My  dear,  little  girls  should  be  seen,  and  not 
heard."  Miss  Blake's  blush  cast  a  red  glow  on 
the  Professor's  face.  He  stopped  and  faced 
her. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?  I  thought  you 
were  rich." 

She  shook  her  head  cheerfully. 

"Not  now;  I  gave  up  my  fortune,  you  know." 

"The  deuce  you  did!  What  made  you  do  it? 
To  whom  did  you  give  it?" 

Surprise  shot  through  the  tender  light  in  Miss 
Blake's  china-blue  eyes. 

"Why,  don't  you  remember?  I  gave  it  to  you. 
You  surely  remember  the  deed  of  gift?" 

"The— deed — of — gift?"  said  the  Professor, 
slowly.  Yes,  he  remembered  that  letter  now. 
He  stood  lost  in  thought,  his  mind  rapidly 
grasping  the  situation. 

"What  is  a  deed  of  gift,  Professor?  Profes- 
sor, what  is  a  deed  of  gift?" 

Miss  Busybody  plucked  at  his  coat-tail  to 
attract  his  attention. 

"A  —  deed  —  of  — gift?"  said  the  Professor, 
slowly.  He  was  smiling  at  Miss  Blake;  the 
tenderness  in  his  eyes  made  the  blue  goggles 
dim. 

238 


Miss  Busybody 

"A  deed  of  gift  is  when  a  generous  woman 
gives  herself  in  deed  to  a  man  who  doesn't  de- 
serve her." 

"Oh,  Professor!  indeed,  not  that,"  Miss 
Blake  murmured,  dropping  her  words  breath- 
lessly. 

"Yes,  ma'am;  indeed  that!"  he  insisted. 

Miss  Busybody  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
with  puzzled  eyes.  "You  are  two  funny  people. 
I  don't  know  what  you  mean!  Oh,  I  see  Dr. 
Engel!"  She  dropped  Miss  Blake's  hand. 
"I'm  going  to  take  my  Philippa  to  him.  She  is 
broken,  and  he  promised  to  mend  her." 

The  Professor  watched  the  fat  gaiters  scamper 
away.  When  he  saw  Miss  Busybody  hurry  Dr. 
Engel  into  his  house,  he  looked  down  at  Miss 
Blake,  who  was  shrinking  and  fluttering  like  a 
little  bird  newly  caught. 

"I'm  a  very  good  surgeon,"  Engel  was  telling 
Miss  Busybody.  "The  doll's  arm  is  in  splints; 
I've  put  a  bandage  on,  and  you  mustn't  take  it 
off.  To-morrow  you  can  bring  her  to  see  me 
again.  Will  you?" 

Miss  Busybody  nodded.  "Yes,  I  will.  I  like 
to  come  and  see  your  funny  things,  and  those 
dear,  dear  little  bottles." 

Her  eyes  swept  round  Engel's  surgery,  gath- 
ering up  every  detail.  Suddenly  she  clapped 
her  hands. 

239 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"You've  got  Angel  John!  It's  muvver's 
Angel  John!" 

She  was  dancing  with  delight  before  the 
bracket  where  the  St.  John  stood  that  Philippa 
had  given  Engel. 

"It's  muvver's!  it's  muvver's!"  she  shouted. 
"Give  him  to  me;  I  want  to  kiss  him  again." 

Engel  stood  hesitating  before  the  child. 
The  shadow  was  on  his  face  again.  He  knew 
that  Miss  Busybody  was  Isolde's  child,  and  he 
remembered  the  little  St.  John  that  he  had  given 
to  his  betrothed  in  Florence. 

"It  is  not  your  mother's,"  he  said,  slowly 
handing  the  bronze  to  the  child;  " it  is  mine. " 

"No,  no!  it's  muvver's!  the  very  same!" 
Miss  Busybody  hugged  the  little  bronze,  and 
crooned  over  it,  forgetting  Engel. 

He  turned  away  from  the  sight,  and  sat  down, 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands.  His  sigh  made 
the  child  remorseful.  She  climbed  on  his  knee 
and  drew  down  his  hand.  "Don't  cry.  I  won't 
take  him  away  from  you.  But  it  is  truly  my 
muvver's  Angel  John  that  she  loved  just  dref- 
fully.  I  know  the  story.  I'll  tell  you,  shall  I?" 

"What  is  the  story?" 

She  settled  herself  on  his  knee,  and  lifted  her 
soft  eyes  to  his.  "My  muvver  telled  it  me," 
she  said,  earnestly.  "Angel  John  was  just 
awfully  good — the  best  man  that  ever  lived. 
And  he  loved  a  naughty  lady,  but  she  wasn't 
240 


Miss  Busybody 

good.  And  one  day  she  took  a  big  sharp  thorn 
and  stuck  it  right  through  him,  so  that  it  went 
through  his  heart.  And  poor  Angel  John  went 
away  dreffully  wounded.  And  God  said  to  him: 
'Angel  John,  go  away  into  the  wilderness,  and 
stay  by  yourself,  and  you'll  forget  the  naughty 
lady;  and  you  shall  eat  honey  and  locusts  to 
make  up.'  And  Angel  John  went  away,  and 
stayed  by  himself — and  one  day — one  day — " 

Miss  Busybody's  eyes  were  shining,  her  whole 
face  was  shining  with  breathless  happiness. 
"What  do  you  think?  While  he  was  standing  all 
alone,  somebody  came  and  stood  by  him — some- 
body booful,  that  had  a  kind  face,  and  kissed 
Angel  John,  and — guess  who  it  was?" 

"I  can't." 

"No,  you  can't,  because  He  had  the  dreffullest 
long  name,  and  it  took  me  weeks  to  learn  it." 

"What  was  His  name?" 

"It  was — "  She  folded  her  hands,  and  her 
voice  dropped  to  the  tone  in  which  she  said  her 
prayers.  "It  was  Strong-Son-of-God-Immortal- 
Love. 

"I  b'lieve  you're  crying;  and  that's  great  non- 
sense, for  I  said  I  wouldn't  take  him  from  you." 
She  looked  at  Engel  with  great  severity. 

"No,  no.     Is  that  all  the  story?" 

"'Tisn't  quite  all.  There's  the  bit  about  the 
Naughty  Lady.  Well,  you  know,  she  was  dref- 
fully sorry,  but  it  was  no  use  being  sorry.  And 
241 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

she  fretted  about  it.  And  she  asked  God  to  let 
her  go  to  the  wilderness,  to  pull  the  sharp  thorn 
out  of  Angel  John's  heart.  And  God  said:  'No, 
you  can't  go;  you  aren't  good  enough.  But  I 
won't  forget  him.  And  one  day  I'll  send  a  good 
woman  into  the  wilderness,  and  she  will  pull  the 
thorn  out.'  That's  all." 

Miss  Busybody  remained  silent,  thinking. 
Suddenly  she  spoke.  "I  know  another  story 
about  another  John.  I'll  tell  you,  shall  I?" 

Engel  nodded. 

"Philippa  telled  me.  This  one  was  not  a 
great  angel ;  he  was  only  a  saint.  And  people 
were  cruel  to  him.  And  they  sent  him  to  live 
all  alone  on  an  island  in  the  sea.  And  he  was 
very  sad.  And  God  loved  him,  and  didn't  for- 
get him.  And  He  showed  him  things — angels, 
and  cities  made  of  pearls,  and  great  glorious 
rainbows  that  you  can  walk  on  right  into 
heaven.  And  God  said:  'Tell  what  you  see,  that 
poor  men  who  are  sad  may  know  that  one  day 
they  shan't  be  sad  any  longer,  for  I  will  wipe 
away  all  tears  from  all  faces!'  But  I  think  God 
must  want  a  lot  of  handkerchiefs  to  wipe  up  the 
tears  of  everybody  that  cries." 

She  scrambled  down  from  his  knee.  "I'm 
tired,"  she  said.  "It  takes  a  long  time  telling 
stories.  I  don't  think  I'll  come  again.  I  don't 
like  your  house  much.  It  feels  velly  dismal.  It 
makes  me  want  my  muvver  again." 
242 


Miss  Busybody 

Miss  Busybody's  mouth  was  trembling. 

Engel  smothered  a  groan.  He  stepped  sharply 
to  the  door. 

"Jakob,  Jakob!"  he  called. 

Jakob  came  from  the  kitchen,  hiding  a  yawn. 

"Ja  wohl,"  he  answered. 

"Carry  the  child  back  to  her  nurse,"  said 
Engel. 

"Ja  wohl,"  said  Jakob. 

He  lifted  Miss  Busybody,  who  threw  her  arms 
round  his  neck.  "I  want  Marie;  carry  me  to 
Marie,"  she  sobbed. 

"Ja  wohl,"  said  Jakob. 

Engel  sat  down  again  slowly.  His  face  was 
very  white.  His  eyes  did  not  stir  from  the  little 
St.  John  on  the  table,  where  Miss  Busybody  had 
left  it.  The  story  she  had  told  him  was  in  his 
heart,  but  he  was  thinking  of  the  child.  Had 
she  come  to  take  out  the  thorn  her  mother  had 
struck  into  his  life.  He  had  come  fresh  from  his 
talk  with  Major  Sanderson,  when  he  had  lifted 
the  only  shadow  on  the  face  of  the  dying  man 
by  telling  him  that  he  would  adopt  the  child. 
The  Major's  pension  died  with  him,  but  he  had 
sheltered  Miss  Busybody's  future  by  getting  her 
admittance  into  a  school  for  officers'  orphans. 
He  had  begged  Engel  to  send  Marie  with  Miss 
Busybody  to  the  school  after  his  death. 

Engel's  throat  had  tightened  as  he  listened. 


243 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"That  gay  little  heart  doomed  to  an  asylum  for 
orphans?" 

He  had  known  that  Isolde's  people  were  dead. 
Now  Major  Sanderson  told  him  that  he  was 
Stannard's  half-brother  and  the  child's  only  rela- 
tive on  her  father's  side. 

"Let  me  take  her  for  my  own  child,"  Engel 
said,  hoarsely.  "She  ought  to  have  been  my 
child." 

It  had  been  settled  only  an  hour  ago.  Engel 
had  felt,  with  a  great  throb  of  happiness,  that 
though  he  might  never  know  love  of  wife,  he 
would  be  no  longer  childless. 

And  now  Miss  Busybody's  story  had  shown  him 
that  Isolde  had  not  been  heartless.  It  might  be 
that  he  had  misunderstood  her  that  day  in  the 
Certosa;  that  in  his  haste  he  had  forced  her  to 
marry  Stannard.  Who  could  tell?  He  would 
never  know  now.  One  thing  he  understood  from 
the  child's  story:  she  had  never  forgotten  him. 
She  had  kept  the  last  thing  he  had  given  to  her. 
He  remembered  that  she  had  called  her  child 
Johanna. 

Engel  thought  of  his  dead  love  in  a  wistful  ten- 
derness, sad  and  regretful,  and  yet  without  pain. 
His  life  was  no  longer  empty.  He  would  have 
Isolde's  child  for  his  own.  It  would  not  be 
long  now.  He  stepped  onto  the  balcony  and 
looked  across  the  meadow  to  the  Hotel  Royal. 
His  glance  strayed  about  the  window  of  the  room 
244 


Miss  Busybody 

where  Major  Sanderson  was  fighting  his  last 
fight.  The  window  was  open  and  the  sun  was 
full  upon  it. 

Standing  there,  Engel  heard  Jerningham's 
violin  sweeping  across  the  moan  of  the  Grttn- 
wasser,  a  faint,  mysterious  throb  that  found  its 
echo  in  the  beat  of  his  heart.  He  remembered 
the  night  when  he  had  heard  Sonnie's  violin,  and 
it  had  waked  his  love  for  Philippa.  His  eyes, 
fixed  dreamily,  grew  very  sad.  Well,  all  that 
was  ended  now.  His  silence  must  have  killed 
the  love  she  had  once  confessed.  If  he  had  only 
trusted  her!  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  doubt 
her!  Pain  lashed  his  heart  with  knotted  cords. 
His  face  was  suffering.  And  yet  Isolde's  love 
had  come  back  to  him.  He  sighed  heavily. 
Ah,  well,  the  child  would  fill  his  life.  It  would 
not  be  altogether  lonely. 

A  sudden  white  flash  in  one  of  the  windows  of 
the  hotel  made  his  gaze  waver.  Some  one  had 
drawn  the  blind  in  Major  Sanderson's  room. 

Philippa  sat  very  still,  her  head  bent  over 
Miss  Busybody,  asleep  in  her  arms.  The  child's 
face  was  stained  with  tears.  She  had  been  cry- 
ing because  they  had  not  let  her  say  good-bye  to 
Uncle  Rob. 

"It  isn't  velly  fair,  I'm  sure,  Philippa,"  she 
said.  "All  the  time  Simplicity  held  his  hand, 
and  she  said  'Death  and  Victory,'  though  it  was 
245 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

me  he  told  to  say  it.  And  now  everybody's 
gone  to  the  friedhof,  and  they  wouldn't  let  me 
go." 

"I  haven't  gone,  dear.  You  shall  stay  with 
me."  Philippa  had  hushed  her  to  sleep,  and 
her  face,  bent  over  Miss  Busybody,  was  grave 
and  purposeful. 

The  snow  was  melting  in  the  valley,  and  the 
great  gates  of  the  pass  were  open.  One  by  one 
the  invalids  were  going  away  to  the  South." 
Some  were  going  who  were  no  longer  invalids. 
It  was  good  to  see  the  bright  faces  and  quick 
steps  of  those  she  had  known  in  the  winter  hope- 
less and  dying.  They  were  now  going  away 
cured. 

"Oh,  Life,  here  is  thy  victory!"  Philippa 
said  Sonnie's  watchword  to  herself  as  she  thought 
of  the  groups  of  merry  people  that  paced  the 
balcony.  Nearly  all  the  chaises  longues  were 
empty.  The  sun  had  healed  the  sicknesses  of 
some  who  had  been  sick.  Some  were  going  on 
to  recovery.  Some  Death  had  carried  already 
through  the  pass.  Babette  lay  on  the  balcony 
still,  but  she  was  getting  well.  Her  lungs  were 
not  diseased,  and  she  would  soon  be  able  to  go 
home  and  prepare  for  her  marriage  with  Karl. 

It  was  springtime  in  the  valley.     Everywhere 
there  was  a  tinkle  of  dripping  snow.     The  blue 
dome  of  the  sky  was  draped  with  yellow  rays. 
246 


Miss  Busybody 

The  great  shadow  had  floated  high  above  the 
stars  and  melted  in  the  sunlight. 

The  time  had  come  for  Philippa  to  make  new 
plans.  She  was  free  to  troop  away  with  the 
happy  troop  into  the  valleys  of  the  South.  And 
yet  she  did  not  welcome  her  freedom.  There 
was  no  stir  in  her  veins.  The  blood  ran  chill 
when  she  thought  of  leaving  the  Mittenthal. 
The  hands  of  the  dead  held  her  feet;  the  hands 
of  the  living  were  round  her  heart.  She  was 
loth  to  leave  the  place  where  she  had  tasted  the 
agony  of  death  and  the  bitterness  of  love.  She 
thought  of  her  father,  and  the  empty  aching  in 
her  heart  cried  aloud  to  stay  where  at  least  she 
might  see  his  grave.  She  thought  of  Engel,  and 
memory  stood  beside  another  grave.  But  Love 
was  not  there.  He  had  risen. 

"The  pain  has  been  good,"  Philippa  whispered 
to  herself.  "It  has  taught  me  to  understand 
life." 

She  would  not  have  chosen  differently  if  the 
choice  had  been  in  her  hands.  She  was  con- 
tent to  have  loved  this  strange,  solitary,  great 
soul  who  had  shown  her  what  life  was.  If  he 
had  loved  her,  her  life  would  have  been  more 
complete;  it  could  scarcely  have  been  fuller.  He 
had  made  it  rich  in  possibilities. 

"To  love  is  better  than  to  be  loved,"  she 
knew.  She  lifted  her  head;  a  proud,  noble  light 
was  on  her  face.  It  veiled  her  girlhood  with  a 
247 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

high  mystery.  "I  am  free  now  to  go  down  into 
my  vineyard  and  gather  my  purple  grapes,  and  I 
don't  want  to  go.  I  have  trodden  the  winepress 
alone;  and  loneliness  is  better  than  laughter." 
Memory  dimmed  her  eyes,  but  the  tears  did  not 
fall. 

She  drew  Miss  Busybody  closer  to  her,  and  a 
shadow  was  thrown  across  the  high  light  in  her 
face. 

"If  I  had  had  a  little  child  of  my  own — but 
I  have  only  held  a  dead  love  in  my  arms." 

She  shook  her  head  determinedly,  and  forced 
away  the  shadow.  "Life  is  living,"  she  told 
herself.  She  remembered  how  she  had  planned 
to  live  royally  in  some  beautiful  place;  but  the 
royal  life  was  to  be  lived  here  in  the  Mittenthal, 
where  Death  held  his  court. 

She  had  meant  to  drink  the  sweetness  of  life, 
but  the  sweetest  draught  was  in  the  cup  of  pain. 
She  had  intended  to  be  one  of  the  great  women 
of  history.  She  had  found  that  history  often 
knew  nothing  of  the  greatest.  She  had  hoped 
to  listen  to  the  song  of  the  delight  of  life. 
She  had  heard  a  sweeter  voice  singing  at  dawn, 
and  at  noon,  and  at  even — through  all  the  hours 
of  man's  day — and  the  song  was  the  song  of  sor- 
rows. It  struck  deep  into  her  soul,  and  great 
chords  answered  it.  "Strength  is  a  better  gift 
than  happiness,"  she  thought.  "We  only  know 
the  sweetness  of  love  by  tasting  its  bitterness." 
248 


Miss  Busybody 

No,  she  would  not  leave  the  valley,  where  life 
struck  its  deep  notes;  where  she  might  serve 
the  lonely,  the  sick,  and  the  dying.  She  would 
make  her  home  here,  and  share  Engel's  work. 
In  the  life  floating  by  with  every  season,  chang- 
ing as  the  tides  change,  there  should  be  one  lit- 
tle craft  anchored  in  the  valley  beside  which  he 
could  moor  his  own  life. 

He  would  need  her,  she  knew.  Some  day 
Miss  Busybody  would  be  glad  to  have  a  woman 
friend  who  could  take  a  mother's  share  in  her 
thoughts. 

Philippa's  arms  folded  round  the  little  body. 
She  lifted  her  face,  all  wistful  and  tender,  and 
met  Engel's  eyes,  soft  and  full  of  a  gentle  pain, 
fixed  upon  her.  He  came  into  the  room,  ner- 
vously crushing  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"I  have  come  for — for  my  little  girl." 

He  saw  Philippa  tighten  her  hold  of  the  child. 

"Oh,  Dr.  Engel!  So  soon?  I  don't  know  what 
I  shall  do  without  her." 

He  moved  his  hat  from  one  hand  to  the  other. 
"She  had  better  come  now,  I  think,"  he  said, 
abruptly. 

"Yes,"  said  Philippa,  under  her  breath.  She 
looked  at  him  with  a  dumb  appeal  in  her  eyes 
that  he  could  not  meet. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  she  said. 

The  commonplace  words  plumbed  the  depth 
of  his  heart. 

249 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"Not  now — I  am  busy,"  he  said. 

"It's  such  a  pity — to  wake  her,"  Philippa 
said  with  a  half-sob,  "when  'Life  is  a  watch  or  a 
vision  between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep.'  ' 

Her  voice  swooned  with  an  unexplained  agita- 
tion. Engel's  throat  was  strained  to  bursting. 
He  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  the  gracious 
womanhood  that  caressed  Isolde's  motherless 
child. 

His  silence  drew  the  girl's  face  to  his.  The 
terrible  hunger  of  love  was  in  her  eyes.  Her 
glance  fluttered  about  and  found  no  resting- 
place.  His  eyes  were  flooded  by  waves  of  emo- 
tion. Broken-winged,  her  own  eyes  sought  the 
shelter  of  the  little  child.  Her  breath  came 
gustily.  She  pressed  the  child  to  her  to  hide  the 
storm. 

Miss  Busybody  woke,  and  sat  up,  rubbing  her 
eyes.  She  smiled  rosily. 

"I'm  velly  glad  to  be  awake.  I  had  a  bad 
dream.  I  thought  I  was  all  alone.  Wasn't  it  a 
funny  dream,  Philippa,  when  I  was  here  with 
you  all  the  time?" 

"Very  funny,  darling.  And  do  you  see  that 
Dr.  Engel  is  here,  too?" 

Miss  Busybody  laughed. 

"And  your  voice  is  funny,  too.  Don't  you 
like  Dr.  Engel,  Philippa?  Don't  you  think  he  is 
a  nice  man?" 

The  question  snapped  the  tension  between  the 
250 


Miss  Busybody 

two.     A  little  merry  twinkle  sat  astride  a  tear, 
and  pricked  along  Philippa's  smile. 

"Yes,  I  think  Dr.  Engel  is  a  very  nice  man," 
she  said.  But  the  dawning  gaiety  fell  from  her 
face,  rebuffed. 

Engel  bent  down  to  the  child. 

"Come,  Miss  Busybody.  I  have  come  to  take 
you  home,  to  live  with  me.  You  are  my  little 
girl  now." 

The  child  threw  herself  back  from  him.  Fear 
darted  into  her  eyes.  "No;  I  won't  be  your 
little  girl.  I  don't  want  to  live  with  you.  I 
want  to  stay  with  Philippa. " 

She  clung  to  Philippa,  hiding  her  face  on  her 
breast.  Engel's  face  changed. 

"You  are  my  own  dear  little  girl,"  he  said. 
"I  want  you  to  come  and  live  with  me.  I  want 
some  one  to  play  with." 

"I'll  give  you  my  dollie,  if  you  like.  But  you 
must  be  velly  careful,  for  her  arm  is  weak.  You 
can  play  with  her.  But  I'll  stop  with  Philippa." 

Miss  Busybody's  voice  came  muffled  from  the 
folds  of  Philippa's  dress.  "No,  darling,"  said 
Philippa;  "you  must  go  with  Dr.  Engel.  You 
are  to  be  his  little  girl  now." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  it,  Philippa.  It's 
velly  dull  at  Dr.  Engel's  house.  There's  only 
Angel  John  to  play  with." 

There  was  an  earnest  trouble  in  the  child's 
voice. 

251 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

"You  shall  have  lots  of  dolls,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor. The  restraint  in  his  tones  made  them  cruel 
in  their  hardness. 

Miss  Busybody  gave  him  a  sudden  terrified 
glance.  "I  won't  go,"  she  cried.  "I'm  'fraid 
of  you.  I  don't  like  you  to  look  at  me  so.  Take 
me  away;  please  take  me  away,  Philippa. "  She 
clung  to  Philippa,  her  soft  eyes  big  with  terror 
and  tears  and  entreaty. 

Philippa's  own  eyes  were  full.  She  could  only 
hold  the  child  close  to  her.  Presently  her  voice 
came  back. 

"Let  me  keep  her,  Dr.  Engel.  I  would  be  so 
glad  to  adopt  her;  I  am  able  to  provide  well  for 
her." 

"A  promise  to  the  dead  is  sacred,"  said  Engel, 
unyieldingly.  "She  must  come  now.  No  use 
to  repeat  the  scene.  Come,  Miss  Busybody. 
You  shall  drive  in  my  sleigh." 

"I  don't  like  sleighs.  I  want  to  stay  with 
Philippa.  Can't  I,  Philippa?" 

Philippa  shook  her  head. 

Miss  Busybody  glanced  from  Engel  to  Philippa 
and  back  again,  and  there  came  on  her  face  the 
expression  that  made  Marie  call  her  "the  obsti- 
nate." 

"I'm  not  going  with  you;  I'm  going  to  be 
Philippa's  little  girl." 

"No,   no,   darling,"   Philippa  said,  brokenly. 
"You  must  go  with  Dr.  Engel." 
252 


Miss  Busybody 

"I  won't!  I  won't!"  Miss  Busybody  sobbed. 
"He  can  have  my  dollie,  but  I  won't  go." 

Engel  was  gazing  at  the  child  with  a  dis- 
tressed, uncertain  face,  in  which  was  an  echo  of 
the  pain  her  mother  had  given  him  ten  years 
before. 

"A  promise  is  a  promise.  I  gave  my  word  to 
her  uncle,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "Come  with  me, 
sweetheart."  His  voice  softened.  "I  love  you 
very  much,  and  I  am  very  lonely." 

"And  I'm  velly  lonely  if  I  haven't  Philippa, " 
said  Miss  Busybody.  "I'll  be  dreffully  lonely 
without  Uncle  Rob  and  Philippa.  Truly,  Dr. 
Engel,  truly." 

Engel  turned  and  walked  sharply  to  the  win- 
dow, and  stood  gazing  out.  Then  he  wheeled 
round.  He  had  made  his  decision. 

Miss  Busybody's  little  face  was  swollen.  The 
look  in  her  eyes  was  pitiful.  "Did  you  give  my 
Uncle  Rob  the  word  of  a  genkilman?"  she  said, 
her  lips  still  trembling. 

"Yes." 

"I  wish  you  hadn't!  I  wish  you  hadn't!"  she 
cried,  passionately.  "It  wasn't  velly  fair  not  to 
ask  me  first."  The  tears  dropped  heavily  down 
her  cheek.  "I'm  'fraid  I'll  have  to  go  now," 
she  said,  with  a  despair  that  went  to  Engel's 
heart.  "Boykin  said  a  man  can't  ever  break  the 
word  of  a  genkilman." 

Then  she  flung  herself  again  on  Philippa,  and 
253 


The  Valley  of  the  Great  Shadow 

clung  to  her,  shaking.  Philippa's  sobs  mingled 
with  the  child's. 

At  last  Miss  Busybody  struggled  up,  and 
looked  at  Engel  with  swimming  eyes. 

"It's  not  velly  fair  to  go  away  and  leave 
Philippa  all  alone.  She  is  crying,  too.  I  think — 
I  think  you  should  tell  Philippa  to  come, 
too." 

The  tense  silence  was  broken  by  Engel. 

"Will  you  come,  too,  Philippa?"  he  said, 
huskily. 

Philippa's  face  was  hidden. 

"It  would  be  better  if  you  would  come, 
Philippa,"  said  Miss  Busybody,  earnestly. 
"You  know  you  said  he  was  a  velly  nice  man." 

"Will  you  come,   Philippa?"  Engel  said  again. 

Philippa  turned  towards  him.  A  radiant  look 
shone  through  her  tears; 

"Do  you  mean  it?  Do  you  know  what  you  are 
saying?" 

"Mean  it?"  he  said,  in  a  shaking  voice.  "/ 
want  you,  too,  Philippa." 

Simplicity  and  Jerningham,  Miss  Blake  and 
the  Professor,  Karl  and  Babette,  were  all  watch- 
ing from  different  parts  of  the  balcony.  Jakob 
and  Marie  had  just  passed  with  Miss  Busybody's 
box.  The  child  was  going  to  her  new  home; 
she  walked  between  Engel  and  Philippa,  holding 
a  hand  of  each.  The  silence  tossed  her  laugh 
254 


Miss  Busybody 

up  to  the  balcony  as  she  went  by.     She  was  chat- 
tering merrily. 

"Yes.  And  you  know  the  snow  will  soon  be 
melted,  and  then  we  shall  see  the  booful  flowers 
again." 

"My!  If  they  don't  look  as  if  they  were 
drinking  glory!"  Simplicity  exclaimed. 

"Then  they  have  found  the  well  in  the  val- 
ley," Jerningham  answered. 

"Can  one  believe  in  death  in  all  this  sunlight?" 
Miss  Blake  was  saying.  "Surely  the  great 
shadow  has  lifted,  if  only  for  a  moment." 

"There  go  two  people  who  seem  to  believe  in 
life!"  The  Professor  nodded  towards  the  road. 

Miss  Blake  followed  his  eyes,  her  face  shining. 

"And  love,"  she  added.  "They  believe  in 
love.  Life,  Death,  Love — these  three.  But 
the  greatest  of  these  is  Love." 


THE   END. 


PRINTED  BY  R.  R.  DONNELLEY 
AND  SONS  COMPANY,  AT  THE 
LAKESIDE  PRESS,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 


IONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


000  697  933     o 


